


Love is Magic (and Will Tear Us Apart Again)

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1980s, 1980s MUSIC!, 1980s history, Dubcon if you squint, M/M, Music, Sex Magic, UKUS, Unreliable Narrator, hints of past England/Belgium and past America/Belarus, tiny mention of Den/Nor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3730297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England gets the idea in 1976: he'll get America into bed, yes, using magic. It's not love, though.  Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afternoon Delight

**Author's Note:**

> So, more of the same UKUS style from me, here you go. Gotta stick to what's familiar? Thanks to whoever suggested "sex poppets" and "UKUS" to me long ago on my tumblr, and to rotifora for inspiring me to get off my butt and finish this. 
> 
> Just so you know, this looks like dubcon but only time will tell if it really is, hah. Still, if the appearance will bother you, be warned.

England first got the idea in July of 1976. It didn't happen on the Fourth, nor did it happen in America, even though it concerned America. It was ten days later, in Paris.

A few handsful of centuries in his more or less current form had given him a great deal of time to contemplate the vagaries, or science, of how the body affected, or directed, the thoughts. And vice-versa. He contemplated them now, because damned if his loins hadn't been clangorously troublesome of late! They'd made his fantasies increasingly and hotly inappropriate. He had a fever that would not abate.

The cool twilight breeze blowing off the Seine and riffling up the legs of his trousers did not help. Neither did the bottle of cold and admittedly excellent Touraine blanc he was polishing off glass by glass.

France leaned far over the balcony railing and blew a noisy kiss at some comely or jingoistic person below. His heels clicked on the stone as he rocked back and turned his leer onto England.

"Ah. Love is in the air," he sighed.

"No, you have merely doused yourself with too much scent," England said, as the dregs of his wine completely failed to douse the burn low in his belly.

"Ha ha! You are glum because your soul is as grey and dreary as your abominable suit. It's been a beautiful summer day. What were you thinking?"

England scowled at France's wide-legged, robin's-egg blue trousers, white shirt loosened at the collar, and floppy red tie. Bleu, blanc, et rouge. England had seen plenty of red, white and blue for the season, thank you, or not nearly enough.

"I'm showing appropriate formality for a holiday that is not mine," England said.

France was an idiot but he was also an excellent host; his floaty wave towards the flat brought a flunky carrying a fresh bottle of wine.

"Ah, yes," France said, taking the bottle and balancing it on the wrought-iron railing to pry it open. "As I recall, you sweated your way through America's independence celebrations as well."

England was sweating at that very moment, and it wasn't because of the the mild French summer evening. "I had a formal gift to present." More than one. He hoped he was doing well! The unicorn, that was, and not America. Well, both of them. America had been so pink-faced and drunk when England had last seen him, and ... and ...

The bottle, still misting from the pop of the cork, appeared beneath England's nose. He waved it off and France sniffed it himself before pouring.

"He's so cute when he gets presents." France waggled his eyebrows and handed England his glass, refilled thank the lord at last. "You did well. By the way, I adore presents."

"You're not having a bicentennial, are you," England pointed out.

"Perhaps I shall invite you back in thirteen years, then?"

England snorted. "That hardly counts, you old beggar."

"A rebirth is still a birth!" France said with a grin, hoisting his glass into the air.

England dutifully did the same. "I suppose I shall wish you a happy Bastille Day," he said.

France's eyes flew wide and he clutched at his chest. "Why, thank you! So gracious! I am reassured in your love for me."

England ignored him and gulped his wine. It did not help.

The last sliver of the sun was sinking into the skyline behind the Eiffel Tower, its orange-red rays setting the marble bridges and monuments aglow. England and France drank and watched the sunset and enjoyed the few minutes of silence on the balcony, even as the crowd in the avenue below grew more noisy and excited.

France was easy. France was the old, familiar idiot, the one who could always be counted on to flirt and take rejection in equal measure. To not be awkward and not pretend that there was anything left unsaid. To not smile so widely and happily that his gums showed above his teeth, and to affect a sophisticated air of languid indolence, with limbs that did not vibrate in youthful excitement and did not make England want to possess them in any way.

"Do not bang your head against my balcony so, England, or you will be too unconscious to enjoy my celebration," France said.

"Nnngh," England moaned, but stopped, being a mature and responsible adult. And an old, disgusting pervert.

"Ha ha! 'S'usually me thatsh carrying your drunk booty home," America had slurred. His arm was slung around England's neck and he clutched England's shoulder for support as they stumbled though the still-rowdy streets around Capitol Hill, heading for America's townhouse.

"You don't know what you're talking about," England said, narrowly avoiding a lightpost as America swayed into him with particular vigor.

"Coursh I do! You're such a lightweight," America cackled.

"And you are most definitely not," England grunted, shifting his hand around to grip America's side to better keep him steady. Or that was what he told himself as he copped a discreet feel of America's ribs. The insult was well-worn more than the truth; America was deceptively slender under England's fingers. Like he'd always been.

"You are!"

England had completely forgotten what they'd been arguing about. He'd realized that this was the closest he'd been to America in a very long time. While sober. Oh, yes. "That's neither here nor there," he said.

"Speaking of heres-n-theres! Where's Fransh?" America asked, his breath hot and boozy on England's face. And very, very close.

"Who cares?" England said.

The further up Constitution Avenue they stumbled, the more the crowds thinned out, though illicit fireworks still popped now and again in the distance. America had told his people to party, and they were doing a good job of it.

Somewhere a garden radio played a song England had heard several times already that day. _Afternoon delight!_

"Ha ha! That song's so dirty," America giggled.

"Dirty?"

"Yeah, dirty. Noughty," America said, in a bad attempt at Received Pronunciation. "About sex and stuff."

England's stomach flip-flopped. He'd been trying very hard not to think of America and sex together. At the same time. He'd not succeeded.

History was long and bodies and hearts were inconvenient things for nations to have. His thoughts on coming here had been of the purest: be a good friend to America on his inde-- birthday. Diplomatic tensions had eased since '74 and England had hoped their personal tensions could do so as well. He'd had rosy fantasies, even of ... of ... smiling at each other (which had happened), of spending a few minutes together without insult or argument (that had happened also). Of perhaps unbending enough to do those things while relaxing. Looking at flowers or feeding the ducks or something.

Innocent things. Unfortunately, England's brain was too creative and America too blue-eyed and energetic and... grown-up.

Usually it was a matter of simply putting the thoughts out of his head, but maybe the sunshine and beer had gotten to England more than he'd thought. That had to be why he was much too warm, even though the sun was gone and he'd removed his jacket long ago. It wasn't the way America was groping him or talking so drunkenly and closely, making England's eardrums tingle.

"Dirty songs are older than, well, dirt. You've heard worse," England said at last.

"Yeah, but not on the radio ten times a day! _We could make a lot of lovin' 'fore the sun goesh down. Skyyy rockets in flight!_

"Keep on truckin'!" some other drunken revelers called as they passed England and America on the sidewalk.

" _Afternoon delight!_ Woo hoo! Would cheer you right up, England, ya ol' grump."

Are you offering? was the first reply to zap to England's tongue from his brain, which of course had gone to the most sordid place it could. England was treated to a brief image, unasked for, of America lying, naked, his mouth slack and shiny, on a motel-bed coverlet as the afternoon sun illuminated the whole seedy (erotic) scene.

"You think so," he offered dryly instead.

"Something's changed," America said, and England realized they'd arrived at his doorstep. Still America clung to him, and still visions clung to the inside of England's brain.

"Wot, here?" England asked, stymied by America's smile.

"No. You," America said quietly.

England's heart stopped. He felt himself gape, knew he glanced down at America's mouth, which was not slack, precisely. Just slightly open and shiny. He forced his gaze up. They stared at each other. America's head was tilted just so, his gaze sharp even as he swayed slightly forward, like he knew what England was thinking. England tried to scrub his brain of the evidence, but for a moment or two he was absolutely sure that America was going to join his fantasy, to close the distance and kiss him.

 _No_ , he should say. _You've been drinking and_ ... and England realized that he didn't care in the slightest whether America was drunk out of his mind or not.

But America continued to do nothing and the moments lingered past a waiting silence into discomfort.

"What are you talking about, twit?" England asked, very carefully.

America glanced away, his smile growing rueful as he stared at his own hand, jingling his keys and then unlocking his door. "Ah, nothin'," he said at last, once they were inside and he'd flipped on the light. "Usual room's there. Think the bed'sh made."

When he turned to look at England again, his grin was unfocused and his gaze drunk-vague once more. He swung open the door to the guest room and stumbled off.

"Catch you on the flipshide," he said with a final sloppy wave over his shoulder and disappeared into his own bedroom.

England was left alone, still caught in the spell that had overtaken them. He fell onto the bed and brooded at the uncaring ceiling. How like America to pretend he'd said nothing, done nothing! England could still smell, could still feel America on him, strongly enough to make his thighs tremble with their invisible memory.

He wanted to have a wank. In America's house. In his guest bed. Dare he?

Of course he dared and he did, bending his knees atop the sheets and stroking himself in the cool air whispering from the ceiling fan. He thought of America touching him in the places he touched himself and didn't care what noises he made, for there was still plenty of noise outside, firecrackers like orgasms, boom, boom, boom.

Boom, boom boom. France's fireworks had started and England dragged his thoughts from the show in his memory to pay attention to the current one.

When he'd woken America had been gone. Still, the spell lingered.

 _Sky rockets in flight. Afternoon delight!_ Shit. He didn't want to walk in the flowers with America. He wanted to shag America. Make him, screw him, rub the sticks and stones together and make the sparks ignite.

"You are humming," France said, from very close.

"I was thinking," England said, and took only a short breath before continuing, lest he avoid embarrassing himself further. Thing was, France would _know_. "That contrary to all reason, you are not actually, er, celibate."

"Do not be mean on my re-birthday," France chided. He backed off a little, but his lowered eyebrows gave him a knowing expression.

"Sorry. Well, not, but ... how does it happen?"

"Ahhh," France nodded. "Love is magic, England."

Love? Pah. This was not love. But the rest ... "Magic?"

"Magic." France raised his hands, arms outlined against the background glow of fireworks and the Eiffel Tower, then pow! made an arc in the air, a graceful fall back to Earth.

England nodded slowly. "I can do magic," he said.

"Of course you can, my friend," France told him, patting his shoulder.

But England had his chin in hand and had settled in for a good think. Thing. The wine wasn't helping. He'd need sorrel, and rose oil. And some things of America's.

End Chapter 1

NOTES: This is the wonderfully cheesy song, lucky listeners: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpGRdX5sUAs

I've written chapter two; the whole fic is not finished, but I've only once not finished a published WiP and that was fifteen years ago, so here's hoping I will finish in a decent amount of time. I also promise the next song will be better. :)

PS: Comments are love. LOVE, I TELL YOU! <3 Concrit is always welcome.


	2. Celebrate Good Times, Come On!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a few years for England to get his eeeevil act together.

Of course being a nation is a time-consuming existence, and distance is as inconvenient as hearts and bodies. Thus it took England a few years to collect the items he needed.  
  
An iota of guilt over the prospect of using magic to seduce America might have furthered England's delay a bit as well; obviously his heart hadn't been fully engaged in the whole business with the cursed chair, or it wouldn't have failed so miserably. And he wouldn't want a lack of conviction in his wicked desires to result in a repeat of the "summoning-Russia" fiasco.  
  
Not that his wicked desires had waned. His lust (never love, not that) continued unabated. It just took circumstance to bring the whole thing to fruition: America practically gave bits of himself away at every opportunity.  
  
England happened to visit the U.S. in '79 and was invited to join America in Houston when the first close-up Voyager pictures of Jupiter came through. As they watched an image of Jupiter's faint rings form itself on the screen, byte by painstaking byte, England caught himself sneaking glances at America's profile (when had he gained that confident clench of his jaw? It was foxy) and thus he happened to see the tear tracking its way from under America's spectacles and down his cheek.  
  
He pressed a handkerchief onto America's fingers, which were clenched on the edge of a desk, and _snap!_ Like that, he acquired tears. He didn't even mean to, really. He even -- after America blew his nose into the muslin with much gurgling and honking -- implored America to keep the handkerchief. But no, America insisted it be returned. He scrunched it into a snotty ball and stuffed it back in England's breast pocket, quite ruining the line of his jacket.  
  
It was only later, when England retrieved it out of his pocket, that he realized what he had. He tucked it away in his luggage somewhere, almost without thinking.  
  
Blood and hair were gifts of a sort as well. Once, in the spring of '80, England was having an "in" day. A May sun shone outside but England acquired cheap wine and a carton of Silk Cut, burned an 8-track with an appropriately moody song, and drew the curtains. He donned jeans and a black T-shirt.  
  
He was sprawled on a smooshy chair in his flat and on his second pack of fags and his third hour of "Love Will Tear Us Apart" when he realized America was standing inside his doorway.  
  
"Can I use your bathroom?" America said.  
  
England forced his head upright to stare blearily at him.  
  
"How did you--" he began, but asking America how he did anything was a waste of time. "What in blazes are you doing here?"  
  
"Stopover at Heathrow. I'm on my way to Algiers. I'm gonna borrow your bathroom. Geeze, it's smoky and dark in here."  
  
Without asking permission to do so, America crossed to a window and yanked open the curtain (blasted sunlight), and then muscled the sill upwards, letting in the annoyingly fresh spring air.  
  
"Hey, you," England began, and then noticed in the light that America looked like hell. He had what looked like a couple days' growth of stubble on his cheeks and his eyes were red and bleary. He was wearing a yellow ribbon tied around his upper arm. "What's wrong?" he asked instead.  
  
"I've had a long flight, dude. From L.A. Be right back," America said, and shuffled off down to the loo.  
  
England poured himself another glass of very bad wine and let his head flop back onto the chair.  
  
_Is my timing that flawed?_  
_Our respect runs so dry._  
 _Yet there's still this appeal_  
 _That we've kept through our lives--_  
  
_\-- Ah, Ian. Ah, life_ , England brooded.  
  
Some time later, he became aware that America was standing over him.  
  
"Thanks. I feel better," America said with a grin.  
  
His hair was combed, except for the daft bit that always stuck up. His eyes had lost their red haze and despite the bloody bit of toilet tissue stuck to his chin, he looked as clean and fresh (and young) as he ever had.  
  
How did he do that? He looked a little scrumptious, a stupid balm to England's withered soul. England pried himself out of his chair and stood, mostly saving his neck from a crick.  
  
"You're welcome?" he said.  
  
America started humming. "Dahhh, dah de dah dah dah dah dah, de dah. Catchy. Is that new wave?"  
  
"Post-punk."  
  
"Ah. So why's it on repeat?" America twirled his finger in the air, somewhere near his ear.  
  
"The singer hung himself yesterday," England said.  
  
"Oh. Sorry to hear it." America didn't look terribly sorry, could barely manage to keep his lips turned down for half a second before his grin made a return. "Too bad he didn't sing "Love Will Keep Us Together.""  
  
England made a very good frown and held it. "It's ironic. Love is a lie."  
  
"You think so, huh?" America raised an eyebrow and then glanced away after a moment, looking towards the window so that the light caught the lenses in his spectacles. The pose gave him a bit of a sinister look that was also rather sexy. "Well, I gotta go catch a plane."  
  
England rolled his eyes and gave up his glum attitude, because it was wasted on America. There were a lot of questions he should ask: why hadn't America cleaned up on the plane, or at the airport? Why the intrusion, not that it was as unwelcome as England might have predicted it would be when he'd planned his "in" day?  
  
England sighed. "You said you're on your way to Algiers? More negotiations?" he asked at last.  
  
"Yeah. Congrats on cleaning out your own house and hostage situation, by the way," America said.  
  
"Thank you." England kept a neutral expression as he nodded. America had at least two failed hostage-rescue attempts under his belt, and the subject was too touchy and sad even for what might be considered natural ribbing between them. England daren't offer the aid of the SAS. He reached out and plucked the bloody bit of tissue from America's chin.  
  
"Thanks," America said, his smile returning. "Your razor needs a new blade."  
  
"Well, now it does. Er. Good luck," England said, palming the tissue and clenching his fingers into a fist.  
  
"Yeah. I'll get that dick Iran, see if I don't." America's frown made a brief and more realistic reappearance, and he stood there for a few moments as if waiting for something. When England didn't offer whatever-it-was, America shrugged. "Okay. Ciao!"  
  
And then he was gone, his footsteps in the hall and down the stairs echoing with the thumping bass line from England's stereo.  
  
"Ciao?" England said to the empty room.  
  
_Love, love will tear us apart, again._  
  
England unclenched his fingers and looked at the piece of bloody tissue. His comb, when he checked it, held several corn-golden hairs that were not his. These he put somewhere, almost without thinking.  
  
It wasn't until '81 that England found his wicked resolve once more. It was when America kissed him.  
  
England had followed PM Thatcher's request that he go to Washington for the inauguration of America's president Ronald Reagan. Normally this wasn't an event he attended. What a pair of bloody-minded, conservative ideologues those two promised to be! The 1980s augured ruin or rarification, to be sure.  
  
So there England was, on Capital Hill for the first time since '76. He and America joined the media under the press awning -- not that they needed the shelter, for it was unseasonably warm for January -- and listened while the dignitaries gave their speeches and oaths to the Constitution.  
  
England watched America fidget and greet: this was a day for Americans, and so he himself hung back out of the way. He was a little worried. America was worn a little thin and hollow-eyed, and his smile seemed pasted on.  
  
Thus he was a spectator when a secret serviceman ran over to America and whispered into his ear. At whatever he said, America's jaw dropped and he pumped his fist into the air. His gaunt look disappeared completely, as if by magic, and the face he turned to England was glowing.  
  
England's fingers tingled at the intensity of his gaze, and then his belly tingled as well when America ran over and grabbed his shoulders.  
  
"They're free!" he cried.  
  
"Who? What?"  
  
America practically shook England's shoulders. "The hostages at Iran's place! They've left Tehran and they're officially free!"  
  
England felt his own answering grin split his face and he clasped America's shoulders in return.  
  
"Well, that's bloody fantastic, innit?"  
  
"Right on!" America said.  
  
They smiled at each other, feeding off each others' elation, until America's shoulders began to tremble under England's fingers. Without further warning his face darted forward.  
  
Perhaps he'd meant to buss England on the cheek, but England's first reaction was to flinch and thus America's sloppy smooch landed right on England's mouth. And perhaps he'd meant to be quick, and the few moments their lips lingered together were merely a result of surprise. Neither "perhaps" mattered.  
  
Yes, there were sparks. There might even have been tongue, just a smidgeon.  
  
England's lungs hurt and his heart quivered and his knees, of all things, grew hot, and _boom, boom, boom_ went the silly fireworks in his brain. But America, when he pulled away, continued to smile like the kiss had been nothing special in particular.  
  
Several members of the press were staring at them.  
  
"It's a European thing," America said, and laughed again. He danced out of the tent, singing _celebrate good times, come on!_  
  
England clapped his drooping jaw shut and watched America boogie away without further explanation. He shook his head and followed.  
  
And through the parade and the cheering and even afterwards, when America walked England to the car that would take him to the airport, America never mentioned that kiss, nor did he even fucking pretend anything had happened.  
  
England's purely pruient resolve returned. One didn't just kiss someone they'd known all their life and then walk off without concern!  
  
Or perhaps one did; it wasn't exactly addressed in the Geneva Conventions. But to England that hardly mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division is one of my favorite songs ever, and can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zuuObGsB0No
> 
> Celebration is by Kool and the Gang. Woot! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GwjfUFyY6M
> 
> The hostage situation for America was the Iran Hostage Crisis, and I remember that one going down, even though I was young. And London had a hostage situation at its Iranian embassy, which the British cleared out with special forces. The U.S. tried to rescue its hostages in Iran several times, without success, and they were actually released during President Reagan's inauguration, true story.  
>  
> 
> Concrit, comments welcome as always!


	3. Communication in a Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England does not feel guilty, he is very pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England is also a very unreliable narrator.

Some nations kept storage sheds for their mementos: England's house was his museum. He'd had the place in one form or another since the fourteenth century, though only the stonework had survived the Great London Fire of 1666.  
  
That and the basement. His basement was his place of dark power -- and somewhat dank power, if truth be told. Only a few stone walls away the Fleet still gurgled by, releasing now and then its particular brand of underground humours. But despite or because of some lingering dampness, his basement was his sanctum sanctorum, the place other nations feared to tread. Some of them might complain about the rickety stairs, but England knew that any intruders' reluctance to tread there was caused, of course, by the Strong Magical Protections he'd put upon it.  
  
In the wine cellar set through the basement's western wall England stored his jars and bottles of unguents, and there he found the rose oil. He kept the dried items in his humidor -- the basement had been upgraded since the 1300s -- and there he pulled out sorrel and foxglove.  
  
Eventually he located the handkerchief soaked by America's tears (and other things) deep in a cedar chest and the bloody tissue sealed in a used foil crisp packet, along with the now-greasy and somewhat prawn-scented hairs. He cut a pair of crude, human-shaped outlines from an empty Hessian sack and sewed them together with a strong needle, stuffing the resulting doll form with the dried items and the handkerchief before placing the final, few stitches. The tissue he poked into the rough weave in the center of the poppet's chest to provide a heart, and the hairs he glued to its head.  
  
The doll didn't have to look like America, not containing such powerful essences of his being, but still England spent more minutes than necessary painting it a face complete with silly grin and spectacles and adding a navel to its bare lower half. It had been years since he'd seen America's navel, and _mmm_ England's thighs burned at the thought of paying it long, lov-- er, sexual attention. He dabbed the rose oil on the doll's stitched armpits and feet and finally pronounced it done.  
  
On the shelves lining the northern wall of the basement England kept an extensive hoard of candles. Unfortunately the bulk of them were pale beeswax for white magic and black or red for dark. The magic he planned was neither, really. Technically. He wondered if he should use red.  
  
Then on the second-to-bottom shelf he spied a pair of pink candles given to him by France in '64 to apologize for the whole Common Market thing. The color was appropriate but the giver wasn't. England considered them, then said "fuck it, pink it is" and plucked one off the shelf. He needn't really fear the sexual advances of France, for he'd been spurning those for centuries. Besides, France had given him the whole idea in the first place with all his love-is-magic folderol!  
  
England lit the candle. It was, appropriately, scented with rose. He pricked his finger on his ancient dagger to add his own blood to the doll's tissue heart, laid open and vulnerable on its tiny chest, and cracked a dusty grimoire. The spell would have to be something compelling, yet subtle; he didn't want to be too obvious. Or to get caught! Eventually he found one that he thought might work.  
  
As he spoke the words he focused his thoughts on his carnal desires, not on any memories of the wide-eyed trust and unconditional affection America had shown him as a child, nor on the lines of worried concern that would form around America's mouth when England was sick or in trouble, the ones that would appear without warning and then disappear in a flash when he saw England looking.  
  
He focused on his desire to lick America's limbs from tip to core and slake his lust into America's slender, deceptively strong form. Not on the way America joined in his humor, shared many of his ideas or returned steadfast to his side, even after he'd done something infuriating that England could never forgive but did anyway. Never that.  
  
When England had spoken his last, breathless word and the candle had melted to a puddle that filled his basement with the sweet scent of French roses, England collapsed onto the stone floor in his circle of power. As he drifted in the mystical space between sleep and wakefulness, he mused that he didn't feel any differently, only aroused and exhausted, but that didn't really matter, did it? What mattered was what America was feeling ...  
  
Even now, did America's ribs squeeze, clutching his heart with an undefinable emotion? Did he even now excuse himself from some meeting to tend to urgent "nether" business, heh heh? Or-- what time was it? Perhaps he reached down to touch himself in his sleep, dreaming of England.  
  
England had just begun to doze when his phone rang. He groaned but did not answer it, and after a few rings his Ansafone (installed in '65) picked up.  
  
"Hey, England! What's up?"  
  
England's heart jumped. It was America.  
  
"I dunno why I called, but oh, well. You're not there anyway. Kinda had a craving for prawn chips, if that ain't the weirdest thing. Uh, guess I'll catch you later. Hang ten, dude, over and out."  
  
England smiled. He gathered his dark robes beneath him to pillow his head, and went back to sleep knowing he was desired utterly. _Heh heh._  
  
***  
  
England didn't act right away on the power of lust he'd unleashed. He decided to let it build like a quickening tempo, let the anticipation grow until he could quench his desires upon America in a true crescendo of passion.  
  
He did not wait in vain. America was all over him. At meetings he found every opportunity to seat himself next to England and chatter at him, or try to sneak brief touches, quickly pulled away.  
  
"Hey, England!" he chirped at one such G7 meeting in late '81. His eyes widened behind his spectacles as he spied England and came bouncing over. He fingered England's eggshell-colored sleeve. "Love the linen look, man. Your suits are getting kinda lighter and cooler. Make you, uh, look less grumpy! Haha."  
  
Compliments, even! Lord, America wanted him so badly. England felt his cheeks warm, but he outwardly and utterly kept his reactions nonchalant. At most he allowed his gaze to linger on America's mouth (his lips were thin but not terribly so; England would call them average except he'd felt how soft and yet unhesitant they could be) until spots of high color appeared on America's cheekbones and he yanked his fingers back to shove his hands in his pockets.  
  
"While yours get more somber, I've noticed," England sniffed at last. Privately he thought the double-breasted navy pinstripe looked very well on America, set off his surfer-tanned features.  
  
"Yeah, well, we're all business these days," America said with a shrug, though his cheeks pinkened further. "Speaking of, wanna do a power lunch to discuss international investments?"  
  
Lord, he looked delectable. England could hardly bear it. But bear it he would, until the time was right.  
  
"Ah, but I'm so busy! Off to Australia, you know. I could send some of my people," England said.  
  
"Oh. Okay. Well, catch you later!" America said, running off like a rabbit that begged to be chased. England didn't play hound: America deserved every heartbreaking minute for forgetting he'd ever kissed England!  
  
And when they weren't together America would call, leaving pleading sorts of messages.  
  
_Click._ "Hey, England, you wanna discuss those missiles I'm developing again?"  
  
_Click._ "Yo, England, what's up? Why're you never home? I kinda miss, uh, talking with ya. Sure you don't want some help negotiating that whole Falklands thing?"  
  
_Click._ "Hey, England, our bosses are best buds, ha ha. We should get together. When are you going to come over?"  
  
England thought it would have been nice if America had been a little more pathetic and forthcoming with the "I love yous" and the "I want yous," of course. Perhaps the spell had been too subtle? Or America too canny? But deep down, England knew the truth. He would listen to the messages and sink lower and lower in his chair, caressing his stomach with his own cool fingers and feeling it flutter, listening to the near-desperation in America's voice, how it begged beneath the words, _touch me, touch me._  
  
_Yes, yes, tell me what you want and I'll do it_ , England would whisper to his silent, Victorian-crowded walls, and imagine America's tanned fingers in place of his own, or his mouth, set in a shiny face above a dark, broad-shouldered suit, sliding up and down England's cock as his body arched taut with the power of a spell successfully cast.  
  
_Click,_ said his Ansafone in early May of '82. "Ha ha, England, you'll never believe it. I have a music channel and they play all your bands on there. They call it the Second British Invasion. Stupid, right?"  
  
The latter, with its invasion innuendo, was what pushed England to act at last. He made some calls to people in the industry, then lounged in his poofy chair with his phone in his lap to dial America and ask him if he might like to fly to sunny, tropical Antigua to watch a music video being filmed.  
  
***  
  
America's clothing choices were poor, but his smile as he jogged off the plane in St. John's and spotted England was so wide that England's every limb tensed and ached at the near-culmination of his desires. America's smile became an open-mouthed "o" of shock when England clasped him behind the head and could only be felt when England kissed him, incontrovertible.  
  
England's kiss was long, deep, and not coy in the least. There was definitely tongue, and America's heart thumping under England's palm, pressed against his chest. When England finally released him, America's jaw hung open.  
  
The red in his cheeks owed nothing to the sun. His words, when he found his voice, were gibberish.  
  
"Um. Wow, England. That was. Uh ..."  
  
"I just thought you might like a European greeting," England said. He was as nearly surprised and breathless himself, but hid it better.  
  
America's grin made a return. He shot a "pow-gun" gesture at England. "Ha ha! You got me. Sly dog."  
  
_Old perverted wolf_ , England thought, then repressed the thought. He'd gone too far for self-recrimination! Then he got a better look at America's getup, the flowered shirt and khaki shorts, and cringed, just a little, through his lust.  
  
"I see your idea of island wear is distinctly more Hawaiian than Commonwealth Caribbean," he said, pulling the lines of his own white cotton jacket straight.  
  
For once, America didn't argue. He eyed England's crisp blazer and slacks, Oxford, and pale blue tie. England thought his gaze was even somewhat salacious? "Yeah, you do look pretty sharp compared to me. What kind of do is this again?"  
  
"A very posh one. With influential people. I have a yacht."  
  
"For real? You?"  
  
What _him_? "Yes, for real. There's to be a party as well."  
  
With such a promised distraction and a more immediate goal in mind, they were both able to focus on something other than the state of each other's bodies. Until they fetched America some new clothing in town: England's tongue ran a little dry at how well America looked in a thin white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and loose, cream-colored trousers. Even his nicely tanned legs hadn't been enough to excuse those shorts. And well! England planned to see his legs again later, anyway.  
  
In the car, England left a chaste, infuriating space between them. He adopted an attitude of contemplation out the window, letting America's nervous-sounding chatter wash over him.  
  
"God, the white sands are gorgeous! The blue of that water! Almost as blue as Hawaii. It's been, like, a gray, wet spring at home. Thanks for asking me out -- to come along, I mean!"  
  
England could feel America's gaze returning to him, over and over. The hot throb low in his belly quickened, but he left the glances unanswered for the nonce. He would know when the time was right--  
  
America's hand on his knee sent a lightning bolt through his heart.  
  
"What's going on over there?" America, in his canny way, was ostensibly using England's knee for support as he leant over to point out the window. His lips, very close to England's mouth, were half-cocked and sly, though his wide eyes held only innocence.  
  
"That's the video set," England said and shifted his knee out of America's grasp _make him wait for it;_ _America_ _would be so thankful to be released from his yearning ..._  
  
They stopped to watch for a couple of hours until filming wrapped up for the day. It promised to be a very silly video, with people falling off docks and paint being thrown all over an attractive girl, but England decided it would be arty and pretty. His people made the best videos, really. And the song was danceably bouncy -- _Her name is_ _Rio_ _and she dances on the sand ..._  
  
The band were invited to England's party and all in all it was an ... invigorating evening. England'd had the yacht installed with a prototype of the new compact disc technology, and all the best new music was played -- A Flock of Seagulls, Spandau Ballet, Queen. Antigua and Barbuda and several of their local dignitaries attended, along with a few music industry folks, some directors, and generally beautiful and cool people. England was kept busy as host, though he took time now and then to watch America's lips on his glass of champagne, of which he drank a lot.  
  
America seemed stimulated by the sophisticated crowd and socialized with the best of them, spending a deal of time laughing with the good-looking young band. "Duran Duran?" America said. "Isn't that the evil scientist from Barbarella? With Jane Fonda?" He made _va-va-voom_ swishes with his hands and hips that made England's fingertips ache.  
  
Drawn by the power of England's spell, however, America never strayed far. England could almost see with his mundane eyes the magic at work, the way America's hair glimmered and sparked, the anticipation in his form, the repeated pull of his gaze to England as if he were leashed on a choke-chain.  
  
It was deep in the night, or more technically morning, when the last guests and servers left. Even hosting a successful party hadn't been enough to keep England's anticipatory fantasies quiet, and his blood ran hot with booze and America's tanned forearms.  
  
It was definitely time. He dimmed the spotlights and lit the other rose-scented candle in the forward cabin. Someone had appropriately left the brand-new and very slick Roxy Music record, _Avalon_ , on autoplay. The title track was rolling, sensuous and serendipitous with its lyrics--  
  
_Now the party's over, I'm so tired_  
Then I see you coming out of nowhere  
Much communication in a motion  
Without conversation or a notion  
  
_Communication in a motion_ sounded like a very good idea. Out on deck, America was sitting in a folding chair and leaning his crossed forearms on the railing, staring out at the lights of the harbor.  
  
"Pretty water. Good party," he said, turning. "You did really cool, considering."  
  
"Considering what?" England said with a smile. He could hardly be offended in that moment, with that song, like a soundtrack, making his every move seem unutterably smooth. He popped the cork from the last bottle of champagne with a flick of his wrist and licked some of the foam from the neck of the bottle. America watched him do it. "I thought it was pretty hip."  
  
"Hip? Haha. What is this, the '50s?"  
  
England scowled and shoved a glass at America's face. "Oh, be quiet and drink some of this champagne."  
  
"Dude, I just got mostly sober again." America might be flippant, but his gaze was narrow-eyed and considering. Then he took the glass and waggled his eyebrows over the rim. "You trying to take advantage of me or something?"  
  
Oh, America was very good. But, well, there was nothing for it but the truth! England placed the bottle on a table. "Yes. Yes, I am."  
  
"Uh." America's jaw hung open like it had when England had kissed him. Then he clapped it shut and smiled, so brightly England could almost see the magic sparkle working in him. "I gotta say, I'm impressed. I almost can't believe you just came right out and said it."  
  
"Well, er, I did," England said, blinded by the happiness in the smile. The only thing to do was pull America up, pull him close, and kiss it away.  
  
This kiss was not coy, either. Nor was it particularly smooth, since England bumped his nose into America's chin on its way up. But once his mouth had found America's in the dim night, it was slow and sweet, like a real first kiss.  
  
England gave himself a few moments to map the outline of America's relieved smile with his lips. America's mouth opened under his, yielding, and England's knees went weak with the taste of sea air and champagne and truth. They pressed so closely around each other that America's glass shattered on the deck, inconsequential, and England's eardrums pulsed with the _boom, boom_ of his heart, beating much too loudly. And also inconsequential. He threaded his fingers into America's hair and crushed him down, down until he couldn't breathe anything else.  
  
He hadn't realized how the yearning in his body had grown until he was so utterly immersed in America, his darling, always meant to be his, really. His blood vaporized with the heat of his own heart's desire and his oxygen-starved limbs grew useless. He was only upright because America held him.  
  
After long minutes they broke apart and sagged together, resting forehead to forehead.  
  
"Holy shit, England," America said, breathlessly. "Wh-- who thought you had it in--"  
  
"Hush," England hissed, pressing his thumb against America's lips, giving into temptation to trace their slack outline. A flicker of light against America's glasses obscured his eyes and England couldn't bear it; he pulled them off and dropped them onto the deck to join his shattered champagne glass, then went back to tracing America's mouth with his fingers, all his, at last.  
  
"Did they break?" America said, his face very close and shiny in the dark.  
  
"Do you care?" England breathed back.  
  
It said something for America's state that he closed his eyes and licked the pad of England's thumb before answering.  
  
"Nah."  
  
_He should care. He loves that stupid state._ But England couldn't care, so he quelled his conscience and replaced his fingers with his lips for another lingering kiss. Emboldened by life, magic, success, he nibbled the corner of America's mouth and slid his hand down over America's very nice white shirt and also nice cream-colored trousers to spread fingers over his erection.  
  
America's eyes flew open and he gasped, so loudly England couldn't breathe. He, England, had done this, by fair means or foul, and it was perfect. America couldn't even spoil it with inanity.  
  
"Uh, can we fuck?" he asked, breath hot against England's lips, and it was actually a good question, very direct and to-the-point.  
  
"Yes," England said.  
  
"Like, at last!" America said.  
  
Also acceptable. From there they were rather desperate, groping, stumbling to the rose-scented deck cabin and its cushioned lounge. They broke apart only to start undressing; America shucked his trousers in a flash and he was bare-arsed and so glowy in the candlelight that England's lust took on a life of its own, consumed him, wanted to burst out of his chest like one of those aliens in America's silly popcorn movies.  
  
England had only gotten his trousers to half-mast before he clasped America from behind, and America egged him on _yeah, do it, England,_ and bent over the cushions, writhing against England's thighs as he pulled out the lubricant, purchased very smoothly with a very sly smile only a few days ago near King's Cross yet now fumbled by hands shaking with lechery. And as he stretched America and prepared to sink himself inside, England tried very hard not to think of long days and weeks and years of pain and war and camaraderie and things half-spoken and sordid motel-room fantasies, and focused instead on the arcane mysteries of bodies and desire and his darling, still begging, _come on, England, geeze!_.  
  
Then he was inside, and yes America was perfect, hot, his trembling hips slick under England's trembling fingers, and it was as passionate as a movie, the better kind, the kind with no aliens but plenty of roaring surf, rushing in and out upon the warm sands, crashing onto the shore, the rocks, exploding into a white spray--  
  
Exploding-- oh, lord, no.  
  
"Bloody hell," England gasped as his lust reached its long-anticipated, passionate crescendo. His thighs tensed and pleasure spiked, tipping him into climax. Much too soon. "Bloody _fuck_."  
  
America rocked back against him a couple more times, then seemed to realize something was wrong. He craned his neck to look over his shoulder. His eyes were narrowed in concern. "England? What's--" he began, then his eyes widened. "Oh, my God. You came, didn't you? You totally did! Haha!"  
  
England cringed all over. He covered his face with his hands. "Don't talk to me."  
  
"How can I not? Haha, dude, that was-- You're, like, the quickest draw in the West!"  
  
Now the movie was a fucking western. Lovely. And why was America laughing, anyway? He should be begging, weeping, even ...  
  
England peeked from between his fingers. Well, perhaps it was a little funny. Not the quick-draw part, which was humiliating, but the situation. Them. America was still bare-arsed but clothed otherwise. England hadn't removed a damned thing.  
  
He sighed and fought a rueful smile. Around the same time, America seemed to realize that he shouldn't be finding this as hilarious as he was. He flipped over to plop his sticky arse onto England's luxury parquet deck.  
  
"S-- sorry, England," he said, wiping his eyes. "It's just ..."  
  
"No, no, it's all right," England said, dropping his hands from his eyes. Best to be a man about it, really. And America looked good, even half-dressed; his cock was still hard, his hair mussed, and his eyes bright. Lest England forget, he'd done that, too.  
  
The situation could be salvaged. It could be made better. England rocked back to shed his trousers the rest of the way, then shuffled over on his knees to work on America's shirt. "Give me a few minutes. I'll show you."  
  
"You'll show me, huh?" America said.  
  
"Mmm-hmm."  
  
America kissed him, a peck that was almost shy. Surely England only noticed the tightness in his chest because he was so limp and relaxed elsewhere? He felt his cheeks heat and to hide them he ducked to press his lips to America's breastbone as it was exposed, one button, two buttons, three, four.  
  
Obedient to England's gentle push, America lay back on the deck. His warm skin shuddered under England's lips. "So what are you gonna show me?"  
  
Oh, there was America's navel. Best to pay attention to it now. England gave it a slow swirl with his tongue and did not have to wait for America's deep gasp. "What would you like me to show you?" England said, glancing up with a grin that was perhaps rather smug.  
  
"Uh. Lots of stuff."  
  
"So eloquent," England teased. America's cock was prodding his Adam's apple, so he palmed it, hot and dry in his sweaty fingers. From there the view was all he could have wished from his first fireworks-and-delight-filled fantasies: America arching, smooth skin spread out, lithe and slender, his limbs' youthful enthusiasm stretching for a sensuous purpose.  
  
It was rather good that he'd come so quickly, England thought. It meant he could let the heat in his belly grow naturally, slowly, feel his toes tighten and curl on the deck at having America so ready, and at his mercy. There were so many fantasies he wanted to fulfill, and so much night left to do it in. Moving his hand, slow and squeezing, knowing it had to be excruciating, England whispered, "What do you want?"  
  
"Wha-- whaddya mean?"  
  
America's hand poised near England's ear, tentative, and England allowed its touch, leaning his cheek onto America's palm. "You have to tell me. In words."  
  
"That's hardly fair," America moaned. England could feel the answer rumbling through America's skin to his own lips, feel America's fingertips quivering, then curling, unsure, against his scalp behind his ear. Tiny chills washed up and down his spine, like the waves lapping the sides of the yacht. The never-ending rhythm of the sea, of desire.  
  
"Who said I was fair? You never did," England replied, his tone fond regardless of the content. He wetly licked the side of America's cock, between his own fingers.  
  
America's eyes glazed over and his head thumped to the deck. "Ah-- ah," he breathed. Then, "You're the worst."  
  
"I know," England said. And he did, indeed, know how it felt to have one's heart afraid to commit aloud, an instinct stronger than any magic. He'd probably taught it too well. America was perfect, perfect.  
  
England crawled up his body, past the shadows and valleys he wanted to explore, taking a quick rest stop to swipe his tongue across one of America's breeze-taut nipples, then meandered on. He kissed America on his gaping mouth, caught his choked sighs like the wind, still moving his hand, working America's cock.  
  
"I want to-- to--" America breathed, clutching England's shoulders, "you. I want everything right now."  
  
"Very well." England's whole body grinned. There were other things he could ask, here in the zenith of his power, but he would be kind. Being a voyeur to America's pleasure was an exquisite enough pastime, watching the vulnerable sweat sheen on his face, feeling the thump of his own pulse grow in his cock along with America's huffs of breath. Bodies were such wondrous manifestations of history, feelings, shared hearts laid open upon their chests.  
  
He was enchanted, his own limbs tensing at every jerk of America's body, and whenever America held his breath England did as well, feeling the blood pool low in belly and pulsing with the quickening of his heart. When America's heels squeaked on the parquet and he climaxed, England gasped with him and licked the sweat at America's temples.  
  
They sprawled together on the gently rolling deck and shared another kiss; America was humming, then singing, only half-under his breath. " _Oh Rio, Rio, dance across the Rio Grande_."  
  
"I already have," England said against his lips.  
  
America laughed. "Yeah? Well, do it again, dude."  
  
It took a while to shed the rest of their clothing. By the time the compact disc rolled back around to _More than This_ , dawn hadn't yet pricked the horizon and the night sea breezes still whispered in, and the boat rocked with more than the quiet waves.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I overindulged myself with prose and the pacing is sooo off! Ah, well, gotta save more sex for the rest of the 80s. :) This continues to be un-beta-read, so please share if you find goofs or badly written things.
> 
> Avalon is such a sexy-ass song. Here's a nice HD audio vid, with the pretty album cover and not the regular video, which has too many creepy closeups of Bryan Ferry's face:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jU2qGgYDf2Q
> 
> Rio is by Duran Duran: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3W6yf6c-FA  
> The video was indeed filmed in Antigua in May '82. Duran Duran were total babes and are still pretty hot in their older years, to us gals of a certain age. ;)


	4. Welcome to the House of Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of 1982. England definitely begins to feel guilty, as well as other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I wanted to get to the official misunderstandings, but instead have a whirlwind of politics and sex. Any misunderstandings will come later, heh heh. And please have content notes: this is the 1980s. Reagan and Thatcher! Conservative US politics with questionable foreign policy. Shouldn't be anything too offensive or surprising to anyone, however.

If England had harbored any ideas (fears) that accomplishing his aim would have burnt up the magic, he was dead wrong. If he had contemplated contemplating the vagaries (or science) of bodies and thought with magic thrown into the mix, he might have come to some conclusions earlier. But as it was, he was too busy with important things like politics (and sex) to do any such thing. Their bosses were indeed "best buds," and opportunities to indulge America's desires came thick and quick.  
  
It was a mere two weeks after their shenanigans in the Caribbean that another first occurred: America's President Reagan was invited to speak before a joint session of Parliament. Such was unheard of! Shocking, even.  
  
Yet there America was in June '82 with his president, upstarts being formally received by the Queen at Windsor Castle. Through the ceremony England could see how impatient America was to be near him, by the rock of his heels and his too-easy laugh that made his mouth too wide, and to counter England was as stiff through the pleasantries as the Queen was gracious. Of course she'd known the chief upstart for long enough that when he later greeted her in a corner of the drawing room with a hug and a peck on the lips, she patted him on the shoulder and called him a dear, cheeky lad. Like he wasn't centuries her elder!  
  
(She'd told England, once, that she was cheered by their agelessness even as she envied it, because it portended endurance. It was not the first time England had heard something similar from one of his monarchs.)  
  
Soon after America bounced over to greet him as well. This hello was done sans lips but because America was so impatient, England used his intimate knowledge of the old Norman-Gothic heap and found them a private, unlit storeroom under a stairwell. There America kissed him, fast and desperate, his skin heating instantly against England's fingers as they crept under America's formerly crisp white shirt.  
  
America pressed England against a wall and nudged his thigh between England's legs. England made some very embarrassing, moany noises at the friction on his cock.  
  
"Geeze, England, happy to see me?"  
  
"What do you expect when you molest me so?" England countered. The sting of his comment was mitigated by the way he sucked at America's racing pulse, just above his collar.  
  
"Hah-- haha, England! You're so weird. But it's a brand of weird I can kind of dig right now."  
  
England felt his cheeks heat, but thankfully it was too dark to expose him. He gave America's shoulders a light shake. "You told me but a fortnight ago you'd never walk again. You lied," he said.  
  
"Yep! Here I am, all recovered," came America's utterly unrepentant voice, rumbling through England's lips.  
  
"I'll have to do better next time."  
  
"Uh huh. But I don't think you can top all that sex on a yacht."  
  
"Just watch me," England said, and proceeded to corrupt Windsor Castle's broom closet with his ill-gotten magical gains.  
  
It was memorable enough for its burning urgency that England was a bit dreamy through much of the next day's Parliamentary session. He heard the speech -- he did! But found himself watching more the reaction of his MPs, and watching America watch them, with glee barely hidden behind his twitching lips as the audience laughed or applauded at all the right moments. Fucking America in a forbidden space, in total darkness, had been an unlooked-for thrill, a blind treasure hunt for sweat-slicked skin, infernal heat and moans kept locked behind lips clamped shut.  
  
America's president was just then talking about Poland and Solidarity, but the sunlight from the Royal Gallery's high windows painted shine onto America's already-golden hair. His hair had never been softer under England's grasping fingers than when it was felt and not seen. England's fingertips ached to stroke it again.  
  
Mister Reagan mentioned Churchill again and there was applause and America's eyes shone as he bit his bottom lip, igniting very un-parliamentary thumps and throbs in England's belly.  
  
He began to think he might need to be careful: the very presence of the Americans, here, highlighted how such things as he'd set in motion had political as well as personal repercussions. He, England, had been so greedy to possess America again, even if just for a short time, that he may have been less careful than he should.  
  
Lord, but President Reagan had a thing about the Soviets, was going on and on about them. England and his boss hated them too, of course, but only imagine if Russia found out about ... about them. Or if anyone else did, for that matter. The things they could be accused of on the world stage!  
  
Well, England had caught himself and if he became too caught, he would need to extricate himself. He knew he should end it. Quickly.

He did not do so and later that evening, they wound up shedding bits of clothing onto England's clean-swept bedroom floor.  
  
"I dunno. It might've been fun to find a place to do it in Westminster Palace," America said as England dragged his face down by the ears to kiss his chin, his forehead, the corners of his smiling lips.  
  
"You would -- huh-- desecrate one of democracy's shrines?" England could hardly breathe, let alone be properly snarky when quoting America's boss: America's palms were sliding down England's hips, fingers squeezing his bottom, nibbled fingernails biting impatience into England's heated flesh.  
  
"Speaking of. What didja think of that speech? Bitchen?"  
  
"What does that even mean? Regardless, I would say he certainly did his best to make love to the British people," England said.  
  
"Kinship and homecoming. Ha ha -- ah." America was quiet for a few moments while England gave him a tongue-swirling kiss. When they broke apart, his face was pink and his thumbs drew sensuous circles onto England's hipbones. "Couple hundred years ago I never thought I'd get this kind of kinship outta you. Thought you'd just try to kick my ass forever."  
  
He was biting his lip again. Christ, he was cute. "Well, like the Prime Minister said. We should let bygones be bygones," England breathed in return, arching into America's fingers, so close to his throbbing cock ...  
  
"Seriously? Are you just saying that because I'm going to suck your dick?"  
  
_Yes._ "No! I mean ... don't be a twat. The threat of another global war brings many allies closer." America was sinking to his knees, kissing down England's belly, igniting atomic-level fires in his nervous system.  
  
"Like you didn't spend several wars jawin' about how everything I do is wrong."  
  
England opened his mouth to refute the truth, but shut it when he looked down and saw America looking up at him, grinning. He held England's gaze and licked his cock until England's calves trembled with the effort of holding him upright.  
  
"Well, er. You're doing fine right this moment," England said instead. Parliament had been pleased by Reagan's characterization of the Falklands conflict as a fight for freedom. England was pleased to see his cock engulfed by America's lips, almost just as he'd imagined it for years -- decades -- cen-- no, he'd not let himself go any further than that!  
  
Still, he thumbed America's glasses off his shiny cheeks, exposing his unlined eyes, blue as an Indiana summer, sly and vulnerable at the same time. How did he do that? England was a terrible person. Almost of their own volition his hips rocked, gently, seeking deeper heat.  
  
America choked a little and England soothed his cheeks with shaky fingers. "Good, good," he said, not minding a bit of clumsiness with his perverted fantasies. America tried so hard to be smooth, the oil in a political machine, but he sucked cock the way he did everything else: with more strength and enthusiasm than skill, like the bull who brought his own china shop.  
  
England's loins burned with nuclear fusion. Before he disintegrated he eased America back by the soft, soft hair. God, look at his cock, wet with America's spit-- England's body very definitely did not thank him for stopping.  
  
"Don't, or I'll not be able to ..." England tried to explain, but coherence failed him. "Let's -- let us go back to the bed here--"  
  
America remained on his knees and held England immobile by the hips. He cocked his head. His lips were red and smeared around his half-grin. "Maybe I wanna make love to the British people?"  
  
" _Hnngh_ ," England moaned. There was that word-- love-- Somehow hearing America say it, as opposed to himself, seemed to imbue it with a sort of finality, triggering pangs that gnawed at England's insides, much too high to be in his stomach. He couldn't let that hap-- England took a deep breath to restore sensible speech.  
  
"My "incandescent courage" is not right up to the task," he whispered, stroking America's cheeks. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps some other time you can be the cultural imperialism you so vehemently deny."  
  
"Okay. But I'll remember you said that." America shrugged, climbed to his feet, and sat on the bed. Then his eyebrows drew down as an indicator light went on somewhere in his brain. "Wait, what exactly do you mean?"  
  
England laughed and kissed him, pressing him to the bed and spreading out atop him. For a few minutes they spoke only through touch and breath, until they were somewhat of a twining and squirming mess.  
  
"Okay, ally o' mine. You can -- ah!-- fuck me," America huffed in a shaky breath as England licked the inside of his ear.  
  
"Really? When, pray tell?" England teased.  
  
"Oh, like, now." America captured England's hips between his thighs and rocked back, rubbing his bottom along England's cock using his not-inconsiderable strength. And flexibility, ah.  
  
Speak of incandescence: England's very bones were white-hot with desire to do exactly as America asked. Such a gift, America was, a gift England had given himself. He was horrible, no doubt. To make up somewhat for his awfulness he did make love to America -- surely a little bit of that couldn't hurt -- gently, face-to-face.  
  
For long minutes his thrusts were slow, deliberate, forcing America to match his rhythm. Sweat broke out on America's forehead and he clenched his ankles onto England's spine so tightly that England's back bowed. But there was no pain, just the inching, aching build.  
  
England kept his eyes open, drowning in the flicker of America's eyelashes. The rest of the world mattered not a whit in those endless, tender moments. If it was just the two of them against the rest, that was fine with England. They'd chosen each other long ago and even a little rebellion could never tear them apart.  
  
His skin was so hot, so suffused with emotion, that England didn't know whether to laugh or weep. So he buried his face in America's shoulder and quickened his hips at last, thrusting deep and hard, releasing them both from the slow torture, letting the pleasure build all at once.  
  
America caught on and rocked with him -- no ocean necessary. After a few minutes his huffs of breath became sharp cries and he clenched taut, all over, catching England in his climax. England jerked his hips a few last, wild times, riding that short, powerful apex of pleasure, before tipping over into his own orgasm.  
  
They swapped tired kisses and sweat for a little while before England rolled off. He crawled across the bed to the window and yanked it open, letting in the early evening air. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table and flopped back against the wall next to the window. Lighting up, he inhaled, deeply, then exhaled, feeling the breeze caress his sticky, satiated body.  
  
America shook his head when England offered a fag. "Nah, thanks. I can't run if I smoke."  
  
"Are you planning on running?" England asked, watching the breeze puff the curtains into a dance.  
  
America stretched over, naked, to turn on the telly. "Not now. But I do, yeah. It's the hot thing right now for keeping in shape! I have special shoes and everything. Oh, look, there it is."  
  
BBC were showing a rerun of President Reagan's speech to Parliament. There was a brief reaction shot of the MPs, and then the camera panned back to Reagan's aging movie-actor face. "... the march of freedom and democracy which will leave Marxism-Leninism on the ash-heap of history as it has left other tyrannies which stifle the freedom and muzzle the self-expression of the people," Reagan said.  
  
America joined England next to the window. "Ha ha! Take that, Russia. Come on my TV, I dare you."  
  
"He just might," England warned.  
  
"Yeah, so what?" America brushed the blowing curtains away from where they were trying to wind about him. "He'll just tell more lies about how happy everyone behind the Wall is."  
  
"Things are difficult in many places," England said. His stomach tightened, in the not-pleasurable way, at the reminder that they were not, in fact, alone in the world. Unable to bear more politics for the moment, he leaned over and turned the channel. Ah, Channel Four had music videos on.  
  
"Hey--" America started forward and raised a hand to protest, but after a couple silent moments, settled back against the wall. Easily distracted as always, he hummed along with the video. "I love this song. _Welcome to the lion's den_ , ha ha. Hey, I know! You can take me out tomorrow before I have to go home. Let's go there."  
  
"Wot?" England choked, coughing out smoke. The speed of America's distraction was such that England had not a chance to follow the change of subject. "Take you out? Where?"  
  
"There, duh." America was pointing at the screen. "I wanna ride a British roller coaster."  
  
England swallowed against his scratchy throat and focused on the telly. It was Madness. _Now I've come of age._ "Ah. Looks like Pleasure Beach."  
  
"Is it close?"  
  
"Not too far. Great Yarmouth." England took a moment to deal with the newest change of ... whatever they were doing. Out, like on a date? He supposed it was a natural thing to do, for someone who was shagging the living daylights out of someone else. Even if such a natural progression of events had never really seemed a possibility beyond the sex he'd craved. Once upon a time he'd have jumped at the chance to do such a thing with America. Hell, his fingers itched to do it that very moment.  
  
Then he thought about a little doll, stuffed with tears and blood, grinning next to a burned-out lump of pink wax. He should end it. He should come clean! He should. Instead he said, "Yes, we'll go."  
  
"Great!" America's grin was wide and his teeth and eyes shone very brightly in the dimness of England's bedroom. England's ribs tightened around his lungs like a closing fist as he experienced yet another new emotion. He could not decide if it was a good or bad one.  
  
Regardless, they went. And thankfully, America was diverted enough by fun (and sex) that he left off discussion of Russia and indeed all politics for what little remained of his visit. They rode the Roller Coaster and England surreptitiously held America's hand instead of the lap bar and, like an idiot, enjoyed taking his ... ally out on a ... date.  
  
They looked at the sights and joked and hardly disagreed even once and it was a good thing America left quickly after, or England's head might have grown so stupidly light it floated away. Like _balloons with a feather-light touch._  
  
***  
  
America called England a week later to congratulate him on his victory in the Falklands. England was pleased but didn't think much of it until he received a Federal Express package the next day containing a New York-style cheesecake and pizza. _To Peace, XXX, A_ , said the note that accompanied the gifts.  
  
_Kiss kiss kiss_. England fingered the note, its paper still cold from the dry ice packaging, and felt his heart turning to warm goo in his chest. He wanted to call America that moment, tell him how lovely he was, bare all the feelings he'd never meant to have. But doubt, both forever his curse and savior, kept him from such foolish actions. Because what if it wasn't real, wasn't what he thought?  
  
On a whim he did, however, run down to his basement to have a look at the spell-grimoire he'd used only a few, sex-anticipating months ago. He found and re-read the spell and all its accompanying warnings. No, the spell was subtle but very specifically lubricious: there was nothing in there about making someone be nicer to you, only about getting them to have sex with you.  
  
He knew very well that bodies and minds (and hearts, he was discovering) were inextricably tied.  But it was certainly possible America had performed such gestures of his own free will and camaraderie. Why, they hadn't been enemies for ... a good five score years, at least.  
  
England tried to remember the last time America had insulted him, even in an oblivious way. America had called him old when he'd complained that the Roller Coaster had jostled his neck, of course, but England had assumed that was merely a ploy to have him prove otherwise. In bed.  
  
England shrugged and ate the cheesecake and cooked the pizza and ate that, too, sharing it with whoever wanted it. The fairies had always liked America, but then they were very similar, silly and proud, the dear, dear things.  
  
Of course there was unrest in the North to temper England's own celebrations: his PM was riding some very steep waves of public opinion. But some of that, too, could be traced to America, his -- their -- policies, the uncommonly simpatico bond shared by ... their bosses.  
  
In October he agreed to visit Florida for the grand opening of a new, international-themed park. Walt Disney and Co. was a pervasive corporate empire along the lines of many that had sprung up recently ( _we're all business these days_ ) but they certainly had sanitized entertainment and display down to an art. Epcot Center was imagined as some sort of permanent World's Fair: Italy was there, or rather the Italies were there, along with Japan and some others. North Italy visibly twitched when they visited his store.  
  
"Oh, sometimes I forget that England and America together aren't scary any more," he said with a tremulous smile.  
  
"Been here for years, and never been scared by that shithead," South Italy bitched, glaring at America. He looked away when England grinned at him.  
  
The United Kingdom pavilion, sandwiched between one for Canada and one for France, was appropriately cheesy with its shiny, replica buildings and smoke-free pub. The bagpipers were authentic enough that upon hearing them England's spine twitched with a mixture of dread and anticipation; many thought their mournful music romantic, but England could personally remember the battles of the old days, when the sound signified that Scotland's kilted warriors were about to become even more capably ferocious.  
  
In the Olde England Shoppe (oh, for heaven's sake) America bought four packets of prawn crisps. "I love these stupid chips lately," America said, and England thought of golden hairs, plucked from a comb and stored in prawn flavoring. Unwanted thoughts again began to coalesce in his guilty heart.  
  
Still they fucked in an Orlando hotel room near the Magic Kingdom, and then again in the car outside Cape Canaveral. A month later they attended the world trade summit in Geneva and Switzerland caught them making out (as a prelude to fucking) in an unused conference room.  
  
"No less than I expected from those who would control the world's agriculture," he scowled and stomped off, slamming the door behind him, no doubt to see that his sister was not corrupted. Poor girl: her women were not even allowed to vote. At least Switzerland was neutral and unlikely to blab.  
  
There was America's Christmas party, where France did not catch them snogging under the mistletoe but did catch America, and gave him a resounding European greeting. England told himself he did not care and should not, indeed, care, yet he steamed in silence while America's cheeks blushed the delectable shade of pink they always turned when he was kissed (should only have been with him, dammit) and laughed and said "that's what it's there for!" (No, it wasn't.)  
  
So England invited him to London for New Year's and took him fancy-dress clubbing. America complained that he hadn't brought anything sparkly and since England was dressed as Johnny Rotten, he wanted to go as a rock star, also. So America dug through England's closets and found one of his too-small, antique and very likely priceless waistcoats with the big brass buttons and went as Adam Ant, yet another of England's musicians he'd developed a liking for.  
  
He dyed his hair dark -- it looked good, almost too good for England's heart to take and continue to beat -- and left his borrowed and also too-small jacket open and painted stripes on his face and shook his hips and sang " _your kisses drive me delirious_ " in his flat accent to the appreciative shrieks of the other clubbers.  
  
No press-men there: in their dark masks he and America could have been anyone. They danced close and shared steaming, gin-soaked kisses under the flashing lights, and America rang in 1983 by telling England that this was absolutely the most coolest he'd ever been. So later England licked every inch of America's body until he was shaking and incoherent. Some time after that he washed the black dye out of America's hair and shielded his eyes from the sting of the shampoo like a soppy old thing who was very foolish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More politics later, wow. I'm learning more about the 80s researching this than I did living through them. 
> 
> Title of the chapter is from the Madness song "House of Fun," which I like so much better than "Our House," which I still hear now and then even these days. But 'House of Fun" is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJ2X9SANsME
> 
> When I think of Adam Ant, I always think of this smokin' look: http://boingboing.net/images/adamant2010.jpg 
> 
> "Desperate but Not Serious" by Adam Ant is this awesome song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iVWWtqa9-7M 
> 
> I discovered you can even watch President Reagan's speech on YouTube. Whoda thunk it. 
> 
> PS: I've always wanted to use the word "lubricious."
> 
> PPS: Again this is un-beta-read. As always, comments are LOVED, concrit is LOVED. Feel free to point out any goofs.


	5. The Upstairs Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight, and England coming to some hard realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like, this fic is spiraling out of control, but dang is it fun for me. I warned of my tendency to overindulge, right? I apologize again. Have some other nations and some more sex and politics, now with a little more angst. I do what I do, right? Oh, except America gets to top for once.

England could only wish that he was cool. What he was, was besotted. Pathetic.  
  
Despite appearances, nations were not people, at least not in the sense of being like their people -- self-determining humans with blink-and-you'll-miss-it life spans. Being a proper, upright nation of considerable age, England should really have been above all the hullabaloo that humans tended to get up to in their Earthly lives, like ... developing singular feelings for a single individual.  
  
When one lived for centuries -- millennia, even -- one should focus on the bigger picture, on things like politics, agriculture, or trade. War when necessary, and sex for political reasons that had nothing to do with sentimentality. Siccing the Powers of the Occult on other nations was all well and good when one was desperate, not when one was merely selfish or sexually frustrated. It was probably some sort of cosmic fate that the one time England had actually managed to score a magical hit on America, he should struggle with his success.  
  
America, who didn't only smile with his mouth but with his entire body, who didn't merely hold hands, but squeezed England's fingers whenever he laughed. _Sigh._  
  
Love, for their kind, _was_ a lie, or at least a very bad idea. Of course that didn't stop nations from falling into it. Only look at Italy -- or rather the Italies, and their fucked-up love affairs. Or Lithuania, or Hungary, or, or France! France was the worst offender. England was determined not to be an offender.  
  
Drinking made him introspective. Drinking too much made him maudlin. On a rainy January day in 1983, England was somewhere between the two.  
  
"Don't know how I'm gettin' drunk off this stuff, but I am. Hah!"  
  
Denmark's voice filled the tiny, dingy pub, drowning out even the rock music playing in the background. _All I got is a photograph--_ sounded American, England thought, even if it wasn't. But then, rock and roll had ever been a reverse musical invasion.  
  
Denmark, now, was a minor maritime invasion. He was in London because he'd come to bail one of his fisherman out of jail, and they were in a pub because England had decided it would be a good place to hash out coastal waters agreements over a couple of beers. Once the work was done, that had become three, four, oh-who-was-counting beers.  
  
"You're out of practice, 's the thing," England told him.  
  
"Huh? Not likely! Not with my constitution and rowdy spirit," Denmark boomed, thumping his chest and making the few other, midday pub patrons scoot infinitesimally further away. At least his axe was stowed safely by his feet, not clutched in his waving, expressive hands. Technically he shouldn't have been hauling it around at all in public, not in London, but human laws tended not to apply to them, and humans only saw what they wanted to. Very good at not seeing things, humans. Especially England's.  
  
"Just stay that spirit out of further trouble, mind."  
  
"Trouble, ya say? Wouldn't be any at all if your fishin' laws weren't so prissy."  
  
England ate a stale crisp from a packet of stale crisps (plain) and ignored that last. Denmark, now. His fishing-boat violations aside, Denmark seemed a proper nation lately. Hadn't jumped in a longboat and raided for a donkey's age, or taken the wrong side of a war for at least a hundred and fifty years. And there was a bloke who had a good relationship with his neighbors, close but businesslike.  
  
Unlike America. America, who antagonized his continent and then sought friends across the sea! Very likely there was a lesson about inheritances and upbringings in there somewhere, but England couldn't be arsed to overthink that particular notion.  
  
"Thing is. Thing," England began, wanting to vent but finding himself unable to coalesce his thoughts into words vague enough not to get him into trouble. He probably shouldn't have had that oh-who-was-counting beer, or started on oh-who-was-counting-beer-plus-one. "Talk about things."  
  
Denmark raised an eyebrow at him over the dregs of his nth pint. "Drink some more. It'll loosen your tongue right up," he said.  
  
"Ver' funny. What I'm trying to say. Thing. International relations. They're a bitch," England managed.  
  
"Nah, they're great!" Denmark slammed his beer on the scratched old wood with a wobblingly vigorous thump and drunk-waved for another. "Why, Norway called me like a bro just a coupla' days ago. 'Course, he was callin' to complain about Finland, I think."  
  
Finland. America had thoughts about Finland, and his ties to Russia. He also had hair like Finland's. A tiny trail of fine, golden hairs, just below his navel ...  
  
England felt his toes and cheeks heat. Finland! They were talking about Finland.  
  
"Finland's head. He's under pressure," England said, and drank more to cover his blushes.  
  
"His head?" Denmark squinted at him a little blearily, then shrugged. "Eh. At least Norway thought it'd be a good idea to call me about it, whatever it was. Guess he trusts me."  
  
"I'm sure," England mumbled. None of them would call America, not in a million years. Unless Russia made some sort of very bold move. Poor America! Unwanted until things were bad enough that even his help seemed better than the alternative. He should call America. And end it! Or perhaps just say _hello_ in a very melting voice. Denmark was giving him an odd look. He coughed. "Shouldn't get too close, though."  
  
"It's important to be looked up to," Denmark said. "They all look up to me. Really!"  
  
England wondered if America looked up to him at all. Outside of bed, that was. _The greatness of the British contribution to mankind, the great civilized ideas; individual liberty--_ America's boss had said. That had been tolerable.  
  
"Getting phys'cal is risky, though. Leads to all sorts of ideas."  
  
"Aww, I dunno." Denmark was jiggling his fresh beer on the tabletop, staring into its depths like watching the waves on the North Sea. "There was that time at the talks a few years ago. That was fun."  
  
England stared into his own beer. There was that time not two weeks ago he and America had ... slow, and for hours. That had been mind-bending. Rather devastating.  
  
_You got some kind of hold on me. You're all wrapped up in a mystery, so wild and free, so far from me,_ the band was singing. Apt, that. _Wait._  
  
England believed himself a thoughtful, perceptive nation. And misery was never more visible than when it was shared. Denmark too, eh? Lord, who'd've thought it, beneath all that bluster?  
  
England cocked his head. "So. Still have a Thing about Norway, do you?"  
  
"Whaaat? Weren't we--" Denmark's eyebrows shot towards the ceiling, then lowered. "Hah! Like you don't have a huge boner Thing for America."  
  
England's heart stopped. "What? Don't know what you're on about. Have you been talking to Switzerland?"  
  
"Yeah, right. And not unless I have to. Anyway, 's no secret. He's exactly like ya."  
  
"Er, thank--"  
  
"'Cept bigger and stronger and his ego's outgrown even yours."  
  
"But never yours," England said with snark and a tip of his beer in Denmark's direction.  
  
"Got that right!" Denmark clinked their glasses. "Hey. I know what'll make us feel better. Wanna start a fight?"  
  
England shook his head. "Bollocks to that. Need t'go home and become less conscious. Besides," he said with a look around the pub, at its hunched-over patrons. "Looks like miners. Very strong. Currently disgruntled."  
  
"Sounds dangerous," Denmark said. He grinned, then scraped his chair back with a screech and stood. "Hey! Who around here would like ta punch their nation right in the nose? If he was a guy."  
  
Things devolved from there. England took a few hits, yes, but landed a few on Denmark in retaliation. He could take it; the chair England bashed over his head barely fazed him. Later, as England made arrangements to reimburse the pub owner for the damage, he decided that it had been rather worth it, because he did feel better.  
  
Really, what he and America needed was a good fight. They hadn't had one in forever. What better way to end an ill-advised affair?  
  
In May, when England and his PM went to Williamsburg for the G7 summit, England fully prepared himself to be cool and perhaps even confrontational. And America, puffed up with consequence as host, greeted him with a grin and a cocky salute that should have been annoying. But it was, in fact, quite sexy.  
  
Things devolved from there. England was besotted after all: weak.  
  
The setting should have helped, the restored 18th-century buildings so colonial in their homespun splendor, the site so close to his and America's first meeting and last as part of the same empire, that blood- and rain-soaked field where they'd stood facing each other full of anger, hurt, and defiance. That had ended with England on his knees, overwhelmed and weeping out years of regret.  
  
In 1983 it started with England naked and on his back, preparing his incandescent courage while America prepared to shag him. Well, when it was framed not in terms of a bombardment but appreciation for the British people, who was England to resist?  
  
"Just be careful with that--"  
  
"I am! Just relax. Geeze, I'm not a kid anymore, England."  
  
Yes, he was, especially there, kneeling over England on the delicately carved Georgian bed, with Virginia spring sunlight shining through the rustic, cornflower-patterned curtains, highlighting his unlined face, his naked body returned to near-colonial slenderness by recession and jogging.  
  
Rather than cooling England's ardor, the thought stoked the fire already burning in his every nerve: he was a terrible pervert and had been for centuries-- no way to deny it, here. Not with his heart pounding in excitement and trepidation, not with his cock so full and aching it was like he'd never been fucked before. Well, it had been a very long time.  
  
The sun caught glints on America's hair, all over, and England whispered his fingertips along the line low on his belly. America gasp-laughed and his lubricant-slicked finger twitched inside England's arse.  
  
"Stop that! I'm trying to focus, here."  
  
"It's all one and the same thing," England breathed up at him. The only things ruining the picture of youthful lust and earnestness were America's glasses, acquired too late for period authenticity. England pulled them off, making sure to lay them carefully on the Chippendale bedside table, next to the tube of lubricant. And there! Full perversion achieved.  
  
America bent down to kiss England's chest, feather-light, breath hot. He was really being quite considerate.  
  
"Aren't you afraid I won't be able to see what I'm doing?" he said from somewhere around England's left nipple.  
  
"What? How do you need to see to do this?"  
  
"Worried? _Unghgod_."  
  
England had helped himself to some of the lube and slicked it onto his palm and thence over America's cock. America arched into his fingers, sinuous and seeking, and England's body ached with wanting him, wanting those hips working for him. Something in his knees-up posture must have softened, for America grinned (all over; his elbow even looked smug) and kissed England on the chin. He worked his finger in one last circle before withdrawing it.  
  
"Ready for a little rock-and-roll?"  
  
"Don't smirk so," England bitched, but with no real heat behind it. Hooking a leg over America's shoulder left him wide-open and vulnerable, then stretched to capacity and gasping. But their position and joining brought America's face on a level with his, and England watched the flutter of his eyelashes on his dear, flushed cheeks, the press of his not-too-thin, just-perfect lips together.  
  
Sweat was breaking on America's forehead from his restraint as he pushed inside, slowly, and England clutched his back and dug in his nails, just a little (America could take it).  
  
"How's this for peaceful intentions?" America whispered, breath ghosting over England's lips.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"Cultural imperialism. You told me a while back that I could do it, and now I'm doing it."  
  
"Ha ha!" England laughed, feeling himself stretching even further around America's cock, a burn that warmed his heart along with his loins. "I can't hardly believe you even remembered that."  
  
"I can't believe you don't believe I -- ah-- remember things."  
  
"I will remember that, you may count on it. Now move!"  
  
"And here I wasn't going to make you beg, because I'm nicer than you."  
  
And bigger and stronger and yet just like him. That was why the magic had worked so well: a sympathetic target. The edges of England's heart began to disintegrate at the thought of fighting with him.  
  
America pushed infinitesimally faster, just a tiny bit harder, and England egged him on, "come on" _love_ , "thass good" _love_ , bearing down his shoulders and trying to lift his hips, seeking to pull America deeper inside him--  
  
America was trying so hard, his every effort and pleasure touching his features as he moved. Sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes and he winced, reminding England of rain and tears, and England thought of the inevitable, that he should be without America again -- because it must happen, and it would be awful. "Come on, that's it, move ..."  
  
America grimaced. "It's tight -- I can't-- I don't want to hurt you--"  
  
England couldn't breathe for a moment. "What makes you think you can hurt me?"  
  
"Sometimes -- just now -- you make this face at me, like you're going to crack in two, I swear."  
  
England sighed. That was twice in one day he'd thought America oblivious. England had been making that look because he was doomed to be the architect of his own hurt. But first, he would have this.  
  
He pulled his calf off America's shoulder _ow ow_ and dug his heels into the log cabin quilt, then heaved himself up and forward, slamming America back and down until his head bounced on the mattress, barely missing the wooden footboard.  
  
"Hey, you told me I could--" America began, but lapsed into silence at England's hand on his cock, steadying him with light, teasing fingers. England sank onto it, impaling himself until he was full and seated flush on America's belly. Perfect.  
  
"--awesome," America finished.  
  
Yes, yes it was, in the parlance of modern times. "Ta," England said, and moved. He moved hard, grinding his arse against America's hipbones until he was huffing with effort and America was open-mouthed, his breathing wordless.  
  
England linked one each of their hands together, twining their fingers so closely he could almost feel the lines on America's palm. America had once said he'd visited a fortune-teller in Bavaria who'd been very impressed with his lifeline, and England mapped it for his own, drawing the life into himself.  
  
"You won't hurt me," England said.  
  
"You-- you're killing me, here," America half-laughed, half-gasped with the effort of rocking his hips up, meeting the relentless downward slam of England's bottom, trying to match his rhythm.  
  
It didn't take long before he managed, _perfect, perfect_ , and England rolled his head back onto his shoulders and palmed his own erection -- his palm was still slick with lubricant -- and worked his own flesh to a fever pitch while America's cock pounded him deep inside. And there was Virginia sunlight and the clean, white, innocent ceiling, the smell of America's soap and the sound of America's delirious gasps, and sweat burning on their palms, and-- England climaxed, sudden and hard.  
  
He rode out the spasms of orgasm tearing through him, spreading his seed over the muscles still working in America's belly, up his chest and over his heart, which thumped madly beneath England's fingers. No tissues and old blood marred his lovely skin.  
  
At that America lost rhythm and his arching hips stuttered to a halt. "God, you are so filthy," he laughed. It was choked a little, like a sob.  
  
"You don't have to stop," England said, hoarsely.  
  
"Wasn't planning to," America said, and used England's own moves on him, rocking up and reversing their positions until England was flat on his back again and America was driving inside him, deep and hard this time, bless his soul.  
  
Still their fingers were clenched together, now pressed into the mattress by America's weight and strength, and England was indeed going to break in two as America shoved England's thighs up to his chest and hit him inside, perfect, over and over with surprising stamina. In but a few minutes England's cock thickened between them again and he was lightheaded as the blood drained down and pooled in his abdomen, his thighs, his cock, heated with friction and from being the total focus of America's attention and vigor.  
  
It was overwhelming and wonderful -- America's gaze, and the sweat falling like tears. England wanted to say it aloud but couldn't form the words, so he said it with whispers and touches to America's face, in the clench of their sweaty palms that never let go. _Yes, love, yes, here we are together, still._  
  
America might have answered but his tongue seemed as tied as England's -- he was just like him, after all -- and he breathed "I-- I-- " until his thrusts grew slower and wilder and he climaxed with short _ah-ah-ahs._  
  
His smug elbows unlocked as his strength seemed to give out and he fell onto England, pressing them and sweat and come and all to the mattress.  
  
England yanked America's head to the side by the hair and kissed him, wide-mouthed and desperate, sliding his tongue on the underside of America's teeth and swirling his hips, rubbing his aching cock against the mess on America's stomach.  
  
"Ah, yeah -- totally--" America breathed and obligingly slid down to envelop England's cock in his mouth.  
  
His strength and enthusiasm were put to good use and England only had a few blissful moments to enjoy the heat of America's mouth and the swirl of his tongue around and under his foreskin before the pulsing in his belly grew ponderous and exquisite. He whispered America's name as the pleasure built to its impossible peak and then spilled over.  
  
After that America was worn out from doing all the work -- well, most of the work -- and he collapsed beside England. Like was often the case after being thoroughly sexed, America became contemplative, perhaps even vulnerable.  
  
"By all rights we shouldn't be together," he mumbled against England's chin.  
  
England's chest hurt, and not from being sexed. He brushed a bit of sticky hair out of America's face.  
  
"Why do you say that?"  
  
"I dunno. I just feel like sometimes. I wonder how it is we don't hate each other more than we do. Like. How did this happen?"  
  
England's heart, just slowing, full-stopped, he would have sworn it. "Chance. Amity," he offered, barely audible.  
  
"I mean. You're a repressed old grump, and I'm such a cool guy--"  
  
"Whaat?" England's heart got to working again at such nonsense. "What a way to talk to someone you've just made--"  
  
England could feel America's eyebrows shift as he seemed to wait for whatever England had been going to say, and when England didn't say it, he laughed. "Ha ha! Just taking a page from your book. Like you don't hesitate to pick on me after you've nailed my ass to the bed."  
  
"I don't," England said. Did he? Maybe.  
  
"Hmm," America murmured. He wiggled on the bed as he snuggled down, pressing his forehead into England's shoulder.  
  
Now that he wasn't panicking, England took a moment to think about what America had said earlier. Why should they be together? Well, there was this. Them. Sex and a mutual distaste for the Warsaw Pact, he could say. A long history of never being able to stay away from each other?  
  
The true answer was a land mine waiting to be triggered, yet England couldn't help but nudge his toe against it. Metaphorically.  
  
"You also have a -- a tendency to repression, in case you haven't noticed," he began.  
  
"Gosh, not me."  
  
"So what ... changed?" England managed.  
  
There was a light snore in his ear. America had fallen asleep. How did he do that? Didn't he know England didn't have his best interests at heart?  
  
_Something's changed. You_ , America had said, several years ago. Prophetic: England had been dreaming of friendship and flowers and then suddenly he'd been too aware of the heat of America's skin.  
  
Asleep, he looked even younger than the youth Colonial Williamsburg had given him. England watched him breathe, watched the sunlight catch his eyelashes, his pink cheeks. So many years ago, England had come here, to Virginia, for talks with the newly proclaimed Independent America. The talks had been brief and half of England had wanted to stomp America where he stood, and the other half had taken one look at his clear, confused young gaze and had wanted to straighten his waistcoat and smooth his hair. England had nearly let himself hope that their separation was inconceivable, a joke.  
  
Now it was almost like bygones were truly bygones. But England would always know he'd forced the issue.  
  
England sighed, deeply. America snored again.  
  
England stepped onto the deck of the sloop they'd caught flying the Stars and Stripes -- in these waters, like fools! He smoothed his epaulettes and adjusted his bicorne and held out his hand. His number one slapped the sloop's muster book into it with an audibly dusty _thwack_.  
  
There were escaped British sailors here, no doubt about it. England looked over the raggedy bunch of men sitting on the deck with their hands tied behind their backs: a Moor with unreadable, dark eyes; an ancient topman, his skin like creased leather; a young man wearing a blue jacket that had once been fine but was now patched and faded. A lock of his golden hair flew upright in the salty breeze. He raised his head and gazed at England with clear, sky-colored eyes.  
  
"You can't do this. It's wrong. You can't just take them back," he said.  
  
"Yes I can. They're mine," England said.  
  
The young man brought his hands around -- they were somehow unbound -- and dug in his pockets. He produced a pair of spectacles and a dog-eared book. The Bible? England squinted to read its cover. _The Treaty of_ _Paris_ _,_ it said.  
  
_LET'S DANCE!_ David Bowie shouted. _  
_  
"What the hell--" England started awake. Beside him, the young man from the sloop mumbled in half-sleep.  
  
_Put on your red shoes and dance the blues. LET'S DANCE!  
_  
Oh, yes. America had set the clock radio to alert them when it was nearing time to meet their bosses for their bilateral private conference.  
  
"Up and at 'em?" America murmured, then sprang out of bed, leaving it bouncing behind him. He stretched, naked, fresh-faced and cocky. "Gotta shower. You coming?"  
  
"Eventually." England hadn't realized he'd been asleep, and suddenly it was time to be awake. He'd never been very good at waking.  
  
America was swaying his hips to the music. _Wild color lights up your face._  
  
"The British Invasion -- is this the fourth or fifth?-- continues, I see," England said, with perhaps a tinge of smugness.  
  
America snorted. "Like they don't play Michael Jackson in London? I heard it myself in Trafalgar Square." Then he sang, growing somehow louder even as he danced his way into the bathroom, _If you would fall into my arms  
and tremble like a flower!_  
  
"I'll join you," England said, arising. America couldn't sing for bollocks, but he was naked and soon to be wet and soapy and that was good enough for pathetic England, who couldn't be arsed to break up with him right that moment.  
  
***  
  
England and America's bosses were, distressingly at times, in complete agreement on many things. This was especially true in regards to NATO's double-track plan for dealing with Russia: either both sides would reduce their nuclear arms, or NATO would fill western Europe with missiles and achieve a status of Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD was an apt name for such a daft plan, but it was a threat with teeth. England didn't mind showing a few teeth now and then.  
  
But when America and England presented the plan to the G7 the following morning, France and ... er, what was his--- oh, yes, Canada -- were reluctant to commit. So during the coffee break, America went off to cajole Japan and Germany and England was sent out to the gardens with France. And, er, Canada. Ostensibly it was for a smoke, but more to allow England to use his persuasive powers.  
  
"If everyone else agrees to it, you will, so stop pretending like you won't," England said as soon as he'd lit a cigarette. He didn't really want it, but France did, and England was being persuasive, so.  
  
France shrugged. He brushed the petals of a lavender rose and took a drag from his own funny-smelling cigarette. "Very likely," he said at last.  
  
"Oh. So. Why all the dithering, then?"  
  
"Well, we must have our philosophical say."  
  
England shook his head and scowled at his cigarette before cramming it, mostly unsmoked, in the ashtray. "Frogs."  
  
"Oho!" France stepped close and chucked England under the chin. "I always think a little sex will make you more sweet-tempered, but it never does, does it?"  
  
"What?" England's face burst into instant flame, like it always did when he was uncomfortable, _dammit._  
  
"As if you could keep it a secret from me! I am the nation of love, n'est-ce pas?"  
  
Likely he'd just known England for too long, the twit. And America too, unfortunately. England had never dared ask, but he was pretty sure France had been the first one to--  
  
"Oh, stow it," England groused. "Whatever I may or may not be doing on my own time has no bearing upon the current world situation--"  
  
"Yet here you and America are, how you say, thick as thieves? Solving all the world's problems and waiting for us to fall in line."  
  
"That is the doing of my boss and his, who are ideological moral absolutists. And I highly doubt that Mr. Reagan and Mrs. Thatcher are--" England halted his rant at the mental image his words conjured: of Thatcher's feet, clad in sensible shoes, waving heels-up hellos at the ceiling ... he shuddered.  
  
France tilted his head and his gaze went distant as he nursed some mental image of his own. Then he spread his hands and waved his cigarette with languid fingers, creating elegant little smoke-shapes in the air. "Well, we take our joys where we can find them."  
  
England shook his head until it hurt, trying to banish any lingering brain horrors. "Don't even-- just don't--"  
  
"Speaking of, you seem particularly agitated and joyless, even in your self-satisfaction. Come. What is the problem?"  
  
England opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. France was being remarkably insightful, it was true, as he often was in these matters. And England was a proper, upright nation of his own mind and couldn't possibly place the blame on France. Or maybe he could.  
  
"It's ... it's partially your fault. But I may have done something I rather shouldn't have and now I'm trying to decide how best to proceed," England spat before he could think better of it.  
  
"So stiff! And I have done nothing."  
  
"You gave me champagne. And those fucking candles," England said, jabbing a finger into France's yellow-polka-dotted tie.  
  
"You confuse me, my friend. But as long as you and America have not ideologically decided to declare open war on the Soviet Union, then it cannot be all that terrible."  
  
England snorted. "No. We just want to wrap ideological hands around Russia's throat until he agrees to nuclear arms talks."  
  
"Hmm. Well." France tapped his chin, his gaze going distant once more. "Aha! I know. This is the modern age, after all. Come clean before the media discover your wrong, and do what you can to reverse it. No one can fault you then."  
  
Come clean -- Lord, no. But reversing the wrong? Of course! England wondered why he hadn't thought of that earlier. He'd been -- he must have been as caught in his magic as America had, or he wouldn't have had so much trouble trying to end it. If he could find a spell that would put everything to rights, he could halt his emotional torment. Soothe his conscience.  
  
_You can't take them back.  
  
Yes, I can._ He could! He was a master of the Mystical Forces.  
  
France tugged at his jacket sleeve. "Just do not hurt poor America too much. I'm still rather fond of him. As I am of Canada here."  
  
_Cana--_ "Gah!" England cried. And yes, there Canada was, standing at his elbow, his vague smile in place. Where he'd been throughout the entire conversation. England resisted the urge to fan his own cheeks. "I beg your pardon, Canada. I didn't--"  
  
"This has all been very fascinating," Canada said with a toothy grin that was very like America's.  
  
  
***  
  
Of course England couldn't do anything without the supplies in his basement. And since he was there in Williamsburg for two more days, he couldn't very well deny the needs of America's body. Or his own, which was too addicted to the feel of America around him.  
  
America's cockiness and laughter were reassuring: he wouldn't be hurt by all this, no matter what France warned. America had what he wanted, which was the G7 agreement on the nuclear plan as well as the distinction of unveiling free-trade agreements that would hopefully drag all their countries out of recession. All that, and he would be released from the unnatural hold England had put upon him. England would be the one to suffer for the loss, in silence and loneliness.  
  
When England arrived home he did read some spellbooks here and there -- he did! But the damned spell was like a thing alive, that protected its own existence by sapping England's will to negate his relationship with the love of -- with America.  
  
Still, to assuage what remained of his guilt, he sent little packages now and then; when America's first woman went into space, he shipped some jam and lovely Assam, food items America could not fault.  
  
Summer, however, became autumn, and that autumn brought several world crises all at once that took most of their separate attention. There was the destruction of the Korean Air flight over Sakhalin Island by the Soviets, and the subsequent unveiling by the U.S. of the development of a Global Positioning System. At home in the U.K. there were strikes and then the Provisional IRA prison breakout to keep England busy. And then there was Grenada.  
  
America called England in late October, after the death of Grenada's leader by a probable socialist coup, looking for advice.  
  
"So ... Dominica and Barbados have asked me to help in Grenada," America said.  
  
"Stay out of it," England said, unequivocally. Dominica and Barbados and Grenada were part of his Commonwealth, after all, even if he no longer owned them.  
  
"But Cuba's there in the thick of it. It all stinks like fat Havanas! And that means the Soviets are involved, and we don't want Russia gaining another foothold right there--"  
  
England sighed. Someone had actually called America for help fighting socialism, and England had to tell him no, it would be a very bad idea. "They are an independent nation and your meddling will not be taken lightly by the rest of the world."  
  
America _hmph_ ed. "We could just invade really quickly, in and out, restore order and ensure that everything's all democratic--"  
  
"Don't do it," England said.  
  
"Okay. So. What are you wearing?" America said, and England thought the matter settled. He called America a few days later, mostly to ask how he was doing after the attack in Beirut (his poor dear), but also to make sure he wasn't planning anything peculiar in the Caribbean. Tensions there increased exponentially day by day and he and America had some Cruise missiles to present to Parliament quite soon--  
  
"You're not going to invade Grenada, are you?" England asked.  
  
"Um. No." America coughed into the phone. "We're totally not thinking about invading."  
  
And yet, and yet, he _totally_ fucking was.   In fact, the invasion had been initiated, even as they'd spoken on the phone. Fate had given England his fight and it was exactly as horrible as he'd thought it would be.  
  
It didn't matter that America was in and out as promised. Nor did it matter that America called to apologize -- not for the invasion, only for lying on the phone. _Security reasons and all, you understand,_ _England_ _!_  
  
What mattered was that England at last knew exactly what he meant to America, and that was nothing. "Help me fight the commies!" he'd asked. "Take my side on these trade issues," he'd cajoled. "You're totally our most important ally," he'd said, and yet ... he couldn't even take England's advice.  
  
The bitter icing on the biscuit was that the whole world knew it! Russia was outraged, of course. Everyone was outraged. Here is America, they said, willing to invade a Caribbean nation at the drop of a hat! He preaches self-determination and democracy but none of you are safe from him!  
  
There was a vote right away in the United Nations to condemn the U.S. for flagrant violation of international law. The U.K. voted yes, and in fact the final vote was 108 to 9 in favor of such a condemnation (damn Antigua and Barbuda, anyway, and after England had invited them to his party!). And England, who had refused to speak to America the entire week since his not-really-apologetic phone call, saw him outside the UN chambers and approached him -- not too close, for his every joint stung with agony, just looking at him.  
  
"Does this prove to you that what you did was wrong?" England said, nose upraised and his stiff posture conveying his fury.  
  
"Ha ha! I'll just veto it and go out for breakfast," America said, and dammit if he didn't have veto power written into the very UN fucking charter. "Wanna come?"  
  
"No, no, no!" England said and stomped away before America could see him cracking in two.  
  
Yes, fate had given England his fight at just the right moment, avoiding the necessity of invoking more Uncanny Forces. It was all for the best, really. England had so very nearly fallen into the same pit as Italy -- the Italies -- and Hungary, and Denmark, and France. His own fault and just desserts!  
  
That didn't make the misery any easier to bear. For months and months America called and called and England avoided every ring of his phone. Every call was torture, sparking some memory. Not even necessarily of the sex, and that had been very, very good.  
  
"Come on, England, everything's fine now, for sure! I'm out and all is peaceful and they'll have democratic elections and it'll all be okay!" England's Ansafone said, in America's voice.  
  
And England remembered America getting out of his bed in the middle of the night, naked. Hearing him creak downstairs, and then his bare feet slapping on the kitchen floor. The sounds of the refrigerator door opening and America's bitching about what he did or didn't find inside.  
  
Or, "I kinda miss being with -- hanging out. Come on, give me a call."  
  
America had used to sit next to England at meetings, doodling on his notepad and grinning to himself, and sometimes bending over to see what England had written, like a schoolboy copying his mate's notes. The twerp!  
  
And even, "I'm starting to get the idea you're really mad, here. Um."  
  
His hair had sometimes smelled of strawberry shampoo.  
  
Once America called when England was mucking around in the humidor -- nothing to do with magic, for he didn't need it by that point, of course. "Hi. How are you? I never hear back from you, and I don't want to hassle you too much except I kind of do, so. Anyway, I thought I'd let you know that I'm totally into another one of your bands, play their new album all the time. It's good Atari-playing music. They're called U2? I love New Year's Day so much, it's like totally cool--"  
  
England couldn't let that one by. He picked up the receiver, yelled "they're Irish, you idiot!" into it, and then hung up. After that, he turned off the Ansafone. He was ice, he was the Arctic personified, and he would not give in!  
  
But England couldn't even sulk in his house on in-days like he'd used to and drink and listen to angsty music, contemplating the general unfairness and melancholy of the world. Every song reminded him of America.  
  
_I don't think I could know anyone but you, dear, that's for sure--  
_  
\--the Cure sang, and England thought that he had never really known America at all!  
  
Even Bauhaus was ruined. _What happens when the intoxication of success has evaporated?  
_  
Well, England knew all about that, didn't he? Had done it to himself.  
  
But the year turned and the seasons turned and it was spring and the roses were blooming and the Caribbean was peaceful and England began more and more to really think about it. And when he really thought about it, he would realize he'd done it to both of them. And those times when he thought that, his heart would burn in his stupid body's chest and the ice would begin to thaw.  
  
Because perhaps America was even hurting as well? It was a weakening prospect. _I miss hanging out_ , he'd said. And his calls rebuffed, America took to sending letters, something he hadn't done in decades.  
  
One April day England received a letter from America with a picture of his unicorn, whom he insisted on calling The Unicorn I Don't Really Have. "She really seems to like that South Carolina hay I had brought up!" the letter said. The letter smelt like strawberries.  
**  
** In May America sent England some rare Kentucky bourbon and England knew it would melt him completely, so he gave it to one of his staffers. Who had to rather work to pry the gift out of England's hands, but then, it was very good whisky.  
  
In June America appeared on his doorstep. England answered the door without thinking and his heart crashed when he saw who it was.  
  
"Piss off," England said, tiredly.  
  
America blushed and dropped his gaze to the ground, not cocky at all. He looked rather worn, in fact, not unlike he'd looked back in '79.   He held out his hands in a peace gesture. "I just ... My boss is on his way to Ireland to visit his ancestral home. Since I was so close I wanted to drop something off for you."  
  
"No," England said, feeling his heart sloshing around his feet.  
  
"I'll just leave it here," America said, setting a flat bubble envelope next to England's pansies. "I know you like new music and so here's some of my own, thought you might like to hear it ..."  
  
"Fine," England said, and shut the door without picking up the package.  
  
But ... when he dared open the door again five minutes later, the package was still there. Inside was a cassette tape, homemade, with "Songs for England" scrawled onto it in America's handwriting.  
  
England knew he shouldn't listen to the music. But ... he really did like new music. America had gotten something right. Like a foolish, soppy thing, England put the cassette into his player.  
  
_Did you never call? I waited for your call  
These rivers of suggestion are driving me away  
The ocean sang, the conversation's dimmed  
Go build yourself another dream, this choice isn't mine  
I'm sorry  
I'm sorry  
_  
The words, chosen for him by America, didn't lie. He was hurting and England was hurting and the fairies had been crying and it wasn't America's fault, it was his.  
  
England drove to fucking Heathrow like an idiot, a besotted idiot wearing weak flesh, and he would come clean, lay it all out and right the wrong he'd done--  
  
He ran right out onto the tarmac where America's private plane waited. America's eyes went wide when he saw him, wide blue seas of confusion and hesitation, and his lip trembled and England threw himself at America like a lovestruck ... idiot, for that was what he was, a love offender of the highest order. And he didn't get to come clean at all because he was too busy kissing America to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are the stuff I live on, and that includes concrit, corrections, you name it. Please feel free to say hello!
> 
> The G7 meeting happened, the invasion of Grenada, all that stuff, and I hope I managed to get some of it semi-right. The transatlantic phone calls about Grenada including the lies and apology really happened between Reagan and Thatcher, and parts of them were released only recently, as Reagan had all such phone calls recorded. No beta, as usual, and no Brit-picker which I think I might need, doing this whole thing from England's (unreliable) POV. Thank you bunches to my enablers (you know who you are).  
>  
> 
> There's lots of music in this chapter. But 80s music is awesome! In order:
> 
> Photograph by Def Leppard:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZ5bS3_BCDs
> 
> Let's Dance by David Bowie:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2HWuR2mq5M
> 
> The Upstairs Room by The Cure:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcSMyQQlMFk
> 
> Silent Hedges by Bauhaus:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ2xPTf8jEk
> 
> So. Central Rain (I'm Sorry) by REM  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=msWi0c4tHV8


	6. Silly Love Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make-up sex, and then wrong, drunken, time-travel sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the note about drunken sex? Also, we get no further in the 80s, sorry. This train has jumped that track, temporarily. Hope you enjoy the ride!

England didn't come clean and America didn't make it to Ireland because England whisked him home and locked him up in his bedroom and used him mercilessly for days. That was England’s plan, anyway. As usual, events unfolded a little more unpredictably.  
  
England did drive back, perhaps a little over the speed limit, and he did take America home with him. There America borrowed England's phone to call Ireland and say "not gonna make it." He did have to hang up before the phone call became obscene, what with the way England was kneeling on the floor and chewing the zipper off his Levis.  
  
America's hand shook as he rattled the phone back into its receiver. "I think Ireland's teed," he said.  
  
"If you mean angry, I'm very sure and I donm gim a blmdy dmn," England said, perhaps unintelligibly, but then his mouth was full.  
  
They didn't in fact make it to the bedroom, at least not that time; they only made it as far as the poofy chair where America wanted to try that "woohoo cowboy thing" England had done oh, so many lonely months ago.  
  
England flopped back into the chair -- why had he never sat there naked before? It was erotically smooth on his bare thighs. Or perhaps it was that his skin was starved for sensation after so many months -- he pulled America onto his lap and there was warm, sticky flesh above and the cool soft below, even better. He nibbled the tender skin at the juncture of America's throat and shoulder, sucking at it until he was sure it would leave a mark and until America's breathing lost all steadiness.  
  
Still, America tried to speak. "Um, uh. Ah! England, I want to say. I'm--"  
  
He halted when England grabbed his face by the cheeks and pulled them nose-to-nose.  
  
"Don't! Don't apologize," England snapped, more irritably than he'd meant to. Part of him wanted to hear it -- America apologizing aloud, only imagine! The world might end. But his heartstrings had been tugged plenty for the day, the weeks, months. If America were not such a headstrong fool, would England foolishly adore him so? Such a thought reminded him how urgently he needed to undo that spell. Return America’s free will.  
  
America used some of his free will to shake his head free. "No, no. I wasn't-- Actually, I was gonna try and find a not-sappy way to say--" He halted mid-sentence and his cheeks pinked. When England raised an eyebrow, he spoke all in a rush. "Trying to say I'mreallyglad you're not ignoring me anymore. Ireallyhatedit."  
  
And didn't that slice the ol' heartstrings into tiny bits? England was a terrible person. Being. He gentled his fingers, brushing some hair off America's forehead, and tried not to weep.  
  
"That's-- er-- actually very sweet of you to say," England whispered.  
  
America's cheeks reddened further. "No kidding?"  
  
"None at all, you lovely idiot."  
  
America sighed. "Just like old times, ha."  
  
Old times that were new times that had a time limit (he had to get to work, really he did). England moaned with his whole body as America eased down onto his cock. America sank his knees into the clefts on either side of the cushion -- England had missed his flexibility -- until England was buried, trapped so deeply he might never escape.  
  
America did a fair bit of grinding that felt very good but was mostly wonderful for his being there, whole, beloved, and naked, and everything England had wanted since forever. They never found a perfect rhythm, since the chair was too soft and England would insist on bending America's head down at unnatural angles so he could never stop kissing him.  
  
They did not mention invasions. America stayed the week for the London G7 and England did use him perhaps a little mercilessly. But despite exhaustion brought about by lots of make-up sex and hosting the meeting, guilt conferred upon England a healthy dose of insomnia. Several nights in a row found him creeping to the basement, after America had fallen asleep, to hit the books.  
  
One such late, desperate night had made his sanctum sanctorum rather a mess. Grimoires were spread out upon the table, along with magical accoutrements and herbs and oils called for in the various recipes, such as lemon balm, rosemary, and patchouli -- he’d made the mistake of opening a bottle of the latter and now the place smelled like a Roman bath. It looked like one, too, what with the damp, except instead of steam a thin haze of smoke hung in the air from his oil lantern and tallow candles. The basement had been wired in the 60s, of course, but it felt rather sacrilegious to read magical books by electric light.  
  
Most anti-lust spells seemed aimed at warding oneself from love magic being used against one, not at repairing one’s own perpetrations. He had no idea how he could possibly explain washing America’s head thirteen times with the same potion and then asking America to pour the rinse into an east-flowing river at dawn, so those solutions were right out.  
  
And reversing sex-magic was another, more complicated thing entirely, especially once the deed had been done, as it were (and done, and done, and done again). Extra-especially because England did not have the will to break all ties and make America hate him forever.  
  
But England did manage to dig out a few spells that might work as he hoped. A chant of unmaking, aimed at the original conduit -- in this case, the America-poppet -- looked hopeful. The danger lie in being very, very specific about what one was unmaking.  
  
He’d also considered time-travel, but that was even more dangerous. It was notoriously unreliable and one had to be cautious not to make the smallest wrong move or change the wrong thing, lest one destroy the very Fabric of the Universe -- otherwise, he’d have long ago found a great many things to go back in time and change. On the plus side it required no ingredients, only force of will and a triquetra for focusing that will, and he had one of those painted on the wall behind him.  
  
England arranged his books with the most promising ones opened near him and silently read chants until his head swam with words of power. He was doomed, really. After a bit he took a break to rest his eyes and have a sip of cold tea. He picked up his old wand -- it had a sparkly star on top, a silly affectation -- and considered stabbing himself in the eye with it. It might make him feel better in the short run and perhaps even go some way to atoning for his misdeeds, but in the long run it would achieve nothing on his foolish body-that-was-not-human.  
  
There was a scrape at the door, and America’s voice.  
  
“England?”  
  
_Bloody hell bloody fuck--_ “What?” England squeaked.  
  
“Thought you were down here. Phew! Smells like a head shop, dude.” There came the sound of his steps, creaking down the stairs--  
  
“Don’t come down here!” England yelled, jumping to his feet. In doing so he knocked over vials and scattered herbs. “Oh, hell!”  
  
“What are you doing?” _Creak, careful creak,_ came America’s steps.  
  
“Cleaning!” He was. Panic made his hands clumsy as he attempted to right bottles and brush the strewn herbs off his ancient books and oh, fuckitall, he’d clean later. Nobody came down here, nobody, especially not America, who hated the occult-- England snuffed the lantern wick to plunge the basement into darkness, except he’d forgotten the candles, which were then the only source of light and they were over there on the shelf, illuminating the-- the--  
  
“What the hell is that?” America said.  
  
“Eep!” England said. The fairies rushed to block the poppet from America’s view, but then, he couldn’t see the fairies, could he?“Let’s go upstairs. It’s dark, and--”  
  
“Is that … me?”  
  
England’s heart dropped to his feet, taking all his blood with it, leaving him lightheaded.  
  
America reached out a finger as if to touch the doll, then stopped short with a grimace he turned onto England.  
  
“Are you doing some freaky stuff with -- gah! You … You--” America’s stare was an icicle, cold and sharp and, and, hateful.  
  
England could -- he could -- what to do? _Come clean._ He opened his mouth. _Do what you can to reverse it._  
  
It was too late! America would hate him forever and he, England, couldn’t bear that, not twice in one lifetime. Even he didn’t deserve that. Words rose in his brain and he spoke.  
  
“ _Axit, topurnum, calendrare_ \--”  
  
“Are you speaking Latin at me? Your fucking magic _doesn’t work_ , England--”  
  
“No, wait!” England meant to say, but instead he said “ _rescindo_!” He thrust out his arm to stop America from leaving, but he was holding the wand. The room went dark and said POOF.  
  
It actually did say POOF. If any sound had ever been POOF, that was it.  
  
Then there were more sounds. Crowds. Music.  
  
_Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight, gonna grab some afternoon delight!  
_  
“Woohoo!” That was America’s voice.  
  
Everything was still dark, and England realized that was because his eyes were closed. He opened them, very, very slowly.  
  
America’s face swam into focus. He was smiling, widely, not icy or accusing at all, but warmly as the sun setting on the horizon. Behind him rose the obelisk of the Washington Monument. On the National Mall. In Washington, D.C.  
  
“Ha ha! Now you’re getting into the spirit!” America said on a laugh. He was holding a plastic cup emblazoned with the Stars and Stripes, and he used it to gesture at England’s hand.  
  
England glanced down. He was still holding his wand.  
  
“Presents! And you, partying for freedom! Have another beer, England!”  
  
“Yes, please,” England said. He’d traveled back in time. He tucked his wand into an inner pocket. Someone handed him a cup to match America’s and he gulped its contents down. What the fuck had he done?  
  
He watched America congratulate his people, exactly as he had done -- eight? -- years ago, and drank another cupful. Once sufficiently doused with watery beer, his heart slowed and he could think a little more calmly.  
  
The fashions. The music. He’d done something huge. In his panic, he’d done exactly what he’d needed to do: sent himself to the metaphorical beginning of his current crisis. Or a beginning, anyway. He could … make this work.  
  
He forgot how to breathe for one moment as he wondered if America knew. But America was smiling, having fun on his Bicentennial. He was shit at hiding things, and it was not possible he could be hiding something so monumental.  
  
England felt his own smile growing along with happiness and hope. He would have to be exceptionally cautious, but he’d been given another chance to do things correctly.  
  
He drank more beer and followed America through the crowds around the mall. He had another heart-stopping moment when he realized that he would need to relive eight years of his -- their -- existences! But then, he’d be following a script he’d already lived once. Only without the sex.  
  
  
But he could do that! He deserved a sexless existence anyway, and should count himself fortunate for the existential bargain. This time, no hoarding bits of America’s essence. No furtive scheming.  
  
The wand burned a metaphorical hole in England’s sweater. He fought to remember exactly what he’d said, done that day in ’76. Had he drunk this much? Fuck it. Perhaps he’d pass out in America’s guest room when the time came and not screw anything up, not until he’d had a good night’s sleep. After all, he’d come from a place where he’d not barely slept for days.  
  
While America was reborn, refreshed. England watched him closely, almost obsessively, and wondered how eight years could have made him look so much younger. He wore the thinness of recession and the mellowness of the 60s, without the material cynicism of the 80s.  
  
Ever a pervert, England also couldn’t help but realize that this was an America he’d never had sex with. He couldn’t say it was an America he’d never fallen in love with, because he’d done that years ago and years again.  
  
“So do you feel anything, America?” England ventured once, as they sat cross-legged on a blanket in the grass and watched the beginnings of the fireworks, _boom boom boom_. “Anything strange?”  
  
“Right on, I do. I feel two hundred fuckin’ years old!” America said, swaying to distant music.  
  
“Twit,” England said fondly. Had America smiled so happily at him then, in ‘76, or was England seeing it with the eyes of experience, eyes that weren’t focused on his own misery and conflicted emotions?  
  
No, America was happy. That was explained by the bicentennial, of course, but America was also plainly pleased that England was there, had been watching him in return, making sure he had something to drink, someone to talk to, that he was having fun. That blue-eyed energy that had so ignited England’s lust, back then -- some of that had been for him. And he hadn’t seen it. How had he been so blind once? Bodies were stupid things.  
  
He followed America around from stop to stop in the well-lit night, ignoring France -- he’d ignored France on this day eight years ago, so there was no reason to do otherwise. He would see him in ten days in Paris regardless, and without the angst! The past could be a wonderful place when one knew what one was doing.  
  
At the right time, late in the evening, America waved at him blearily from the deck chair he’d fallen into. “Better getsh home,” he slurred.  
  
“Ver’ well. Come along,” England recited from his internal script, and pulled America out of the chair. He swayed more than the script called for when America threw an arm over his shoulders, but then perhaps he himself’d had a little more to drink this time. No worry. Minor. Wasn’t somethin’ to puncture universal … fabrics, sort of thing.  
  
"Ha ha! 'S'usually me thatsh carrying your drunk booty home," America slurred as they stumbled along.  
  
"Erm. You, ah. You don't know what you're talking about," England said as America bumped into him right on cue, near the lightpost.  
  
"Coursh I do! You're such a lightweight," America cackled.  
  
“You’re not,” England said, that time with a return giggle. He very definitely copped a feel when straightening them out. America was so warm, so … innocent. Something.  
  
Maybe he would only have to endure five years before he went back to the future. All the way to 1981, at least, to ensure he’d not do that sodding lust spell. He didn’t remember being this drunk.  
  
"You are!"  
  
England completely forgot the script when America breathed in his ear. Had he been so very close, that night? Had his breath been so very boozy and hot and had his own veins tingled with such chills?  
  
Fireworks popped in the distance. Somewhere a garden radio played a song. _You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs; I look around me and I see it isn’t so._  
  
England shook his head to clear it. It … seemed like the wrong song? But it was a good song, anyway.  
  
_“Some people wanna fill th’ world with silly love songs!”_ America sang, off-key. “ _But what’s wrong with that?_ ”  
  
"Keep on truckin'!" the passing group of drunken revelers called, right on … cue?  
  
They arrived at America’s doorstep, still clinging together as America dug clumsy fingers in his pockets for his keys. Both of them were swaying. America halted his fumbling and looked down at him. "Something's changed," he said, in a quiet and almost sober voice.  
  
"Wot, here?" England asked, feeling himself flush. Did America know? Wait, no, America had asked that, he was supposed to ask that. England had said what he’d just said. And America, he was supposed to say--  
  
"No. You," America said.  
  
England's heart stopped as he watched America’s mouth, open and shiny and so very close. Paul McCartney was singing, _love isn’t silly at all._ America had that look that said he felt everything, and England swallowed. He had changed. This was his second chance.  
  
“I love you,” he said.  
  
America’s eyes flew wide, confused. “Um. Are you singing?”  
_  
_ England laughed. Saying it aloud, straight and true as an arrow as he’d never, ever been able to before, had lightened his heart by tonnes and America thought he was singing the Wings song. _I love you!_ He shook his head and patted America on the chest. His dear, silly America.  
  
“No. I love you. And, er, I want to have sex with you.”  
  
America’s gaze widened further, if that was possible. His mouth gaped for a moment. “Uh. Um. Wow, uh. Holy heart attacks, Batman!”  
  
“What does that mean?”  
  
“It means I’ve just had one. Um.” America glanced down at his own hand, jingling his keys and then unlocking his door. “Let’s go inside.”  
  
England’s heart sank and he wondered if he’d done it all wrong, oh shit, his instincts to keep his body’s mouth uninvolved in actual emotion had always been right, and coming clean had been the wrong thing to do, and--  
  
But inside the door, America dropped his keys on the floor and pulled England close and gave him a sloppy, sloppy, wonderful kiss.  
  
No, he should say. You've been drinking and ... and England realized that he didn't care in the slightest whether America was drunk out of his mind or not. He was drunk, too, drunk on love and doing things the right way for once.  
  
There was no guest room and lonely wank for England that July fourth, no. Clutching each other, they lurched down the hall to America’s bedroom and collapsed inside the door for a further grope. Had America’s kisses ever been this fumbling, this raw and sweet? England wondered. His mouth tasted like beer and England took advantage of America’s sodden slackness to hold his head steady and lick every slick inch of it inside, slow and hungry.  
  
America’s skin was hotter than England ever remembered it being, hot from all-day sun and all-day beer, and England warmed it further with his hands, sliding his fingers down America’s cheeks and neck and up under his shirt to palm the slightly sticky flesh over his ribs, then his belly, which jumped with harsh breaths. Exploring new, familiar territory.  
  
“Nnngh, dangit, England, can’t breathe here,” America mumbled.  
  
“Breathe through yer nose,” England instructed and kissed him mindless some more. When England clasped his erection America snorted through his nose and pushed against England’s shoulders.  
  
“Gimme … minute,” he huffed.  
  
“Mmmm.” England gave America’s abused lips a rest and kissed his chin, his throat, feather-light, and gentled his fingers on America’s cock, stroking the hot flesh up and down, slowly, until America swayed against his hand.  
  
“This’s so wrong. But feelsh great,” America slurred.  
  
“’S lovely,” England agreed. It was a gift, this first time all over again. And England had a very singular, very evil advantage: he already knew exactly how to make love to America. Not that England didn’t prefer his -- the future -- America, who was comfortable with him, wanted him in return without guile or hesitation, who told him that he hated not hearing from him. But this!  
  
England stilled his hand and America leaned against him. It wasn’t the same, but it was good, better than it had any right to be. And England’s body burned for him more than it had any right to, every evil inch of it.  
  
“D’ye wan’ me to fuck you?” England asked America’s hair.  
  
“Huh. Why the hell not. Yeah,” America breathed.  
  
“A ringing endorshment!”  
  
“Well, ‘s all so sudden! Good, though. Lemme get--”  
  
America pulled away with a wince, perhaps at the loss of the stimulation of England’s hand on his cock, and tottered over to the bedside table. He dug inside, grunting, and pulled out a packet of lubricant. He tossed it, badly, at England, who missed it.  
  
England bent over to pick it up. “Not sho sudden?” he said when he stood, with a rather smug grin.  
  
America shrugged and smiled back, standing there pink, shiny and with his glasses smeared, looking more than adorable. “Well, you never know when ya might get laid on your bi-shentennial.”  
  
“Oh, you’ll get laid, all right,” England said, eyeing the 1970s lubricant. Seventies lube for seventies lovemaking. Who’d have ever thought? He wanted … he wanted to ask America if he loved him in return. But he wouldn’t. This would be organic. As real as could be.  
  
“Man, you’ve changed. But I think I like it.”  
  
“Touch me, then,” England challenged, smiling and waving the packet between two fingers.  
  
“Ten-four, good buddy,” America said. In half a moment he was pressed against England again, grabbing his arse and grinding against him, inelegant and everything England had ever wanted. Of his own free will. He, England, had been so stupid! Not anymore. His cock throbbed at the clumsy contact and he kissed America deeply and drunkly as they somehow managed to shed their clothing.  
  
America’s every unsure touch was bliss, and England used his evil advantage without mercy. Even drunk he knew America’s body -- every America’s body -- intimately. Knew how to make him squirm, knew how to make him moan, knew how to make him dig his fingernails into various parts of England’s body.  
  
At least with this first time there was no premature ejaculation to ruin the moment -- England was much too pissed for that. He wasn’t too pissed to feel how wonderfully tight America was around him, both his heat around England’s cock and his thigh slung around England’s waist. England shoved the other thigh wide and pressed his body against all of America that he could, wanting every sticky bump of their bellies he could get, every sensation at once.  
  
And perhaps it was the alcohol, but America was loud. America was usually loud in some way, but never like this when being fucked, never crying out with every thrust England gave him, inarticulate _unhs_ along with _oh gods_ and _god yes England unhs_. It was heady, a rhythmic, erotic soundtrack to England’s rocking hips, and he rocked faster and faster, fucking America perhaps more fiercely than he ever had before, even more desperate than he’d been in the dark broom closet at Windsor Castle, and having already said it he was free to tell America over and over, _yes, love, yes_.  
  
“God, England, gonna come--”  
  
England freed one hand to stroke America’s cock, his thumb pushing at the sensitive tip. “I love you. I want it,” England growled.  
  
And America came with a violent shudder, clenching England’s cock so tightly his own climax was yanked from him, equally violent. And so, so right.  
  
***  
  
England was awoken by America’s yell.  
  
“Oh, shit! Oh, no, no!”  
  
His eyes flew open and at first he didn’t know where he was. But then he saw the Washington sunlight through the window, the rumpled bedsheets of America’s bed in America’s townhouse, and remembered the where along with the when. Oops. He’d hours ago deviated from his script, to be sure.  
  
And America yelling was definitely not part of that same script. America was not even in the room with him, though he was heading that way, if the thumping footsteps down the hall were any indication.  
  
America rushed into the room, clutching the doorframe. “President Ford. He’s been--” America paused for a deep breath. “He was assassinated this morning. Shot.”  
  
_Oh, fuck._ “That’s impossible!”  
  
“No, it ain’t. I just got the call.”  
  
“But that’s not supposed to happen!” England blurted. He could be perhaps be forgiven his confusion given his hangover and his shock, but if America noticed anything strange about his words, he didn’t let on.  
  
“Yeah? Tell that to the Russian they caught with the smoking gun.”  
  
“Oh, hell,” England said, simply.  
  
“Got that right.” America was dressed and slightly damp, presumably from showering. He ran a hand through his already-wild hair. “Listen, I gotta go talk to the Veep. Well, the president, now. Things are -- you’d better get back and deal with stuff at home.”  
  
“Yes,” England said. Ignoring the chorus of _oh shit oh fuck this wasn’t supposed to happen what have I done_ running through his brain, he climbed out of bed and stepped over to embrace America, comfort him. Not show guilt _oh fuck, never that_.  
  
But America stepped back and raised his palms. “Hey. Uh, let’s just be cool.”  
  
England’s stomach flip-flopped with dread. “What?”  
  
America sighed and looked at the window, the floor, everywhere but at England. “We probably shouldn’t’ve. Well, you said things you prolly didn’t mean and I said things and we did things but--”  
  
_I did mean them._ “But what.”  
  
“Well, I gotta go. Shower’s free.” With that, he was gone, thump-running down the hall and out of the house. The front door was slammed behind him.  
  
“Things,” England said. He flopped onto the bed for a few minutes, trying very hard not to think that this was all his fault. That would be egoistic.  
  
Except President Ford had never been assassinated. The only thing different in this scenario from the past was the fact that England was here, that England had told America he loved him and then they’d had sex that they’d never been supposed to have. He, England, was the one who’d spelled himself through time, blundering into a past he should never have revisited.  
  
One had to be very, very careful not to change anything important. Apparently having sex with America had changed things irrevocably, in this past, at least. England had his shower. It was a long, hot one, and did nothing to assuage his egoism or his guilt and dread.  
  
Then he went into the other room and dug through his clothing until he found his wand. He dressed. Then he returned to the bathroom and drew a triquetra in the condensation on the mirror.  
  
“Calendrare. Rescindo,” he said quietly, and waved his star-tipped wand at his own sad reflection in the mirror.  
  
POOF.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly Love Songs is by Paul McCartney and Wings, and can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_9QooYDYtU
> 
> So one of my bulletproof kinks is time travel by one character where they have sex with their partner who has not traveled back in time and, yeah. Hetalia is perfect for this with all its history. But don't worry! The president's not really dead. England didn't screw up the timeline (at least not with that). And I'll get back to the 80s, I promise.
> 
> Comments and concrit are so appreciated, you don't even know. Thank you for reading!


	7. Like to Get to Know You Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England feels like he's living a teenage dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes, a 7000-plus word chapter and not much sex at all. Ah, well, at least there is sex, and at least I'm working on it, right? And we're into 1985 at last.

  
“-- _scindo_. Gackt!” England said, as he choked on cold tea.  
  
He was -- he was -- one of his hands was holding his star-tipped wand, and the other was spilling tea onto his magic books.  
  
“Shitgrble,” England said as he coughed the tea out of his lungs. He set the cup down before he could do any more damage, and his wand he dropped like a hot thing that was very hot.  
  
His gaze quickly took in his surroundings. Those were -- those were his damp walls, his shelves, his humidor. He’d done it. He’d returned home, to his own basement. But when? That was the pertinent question. How much of his life, the world, and/or history had he irretrievably fucked up?  
  
Well, his basement was intact in this timeline, at least, and just as he’d left it, with smoke in the air from the candles and herbs and oils spread out upon the table. Unspilled … hadn’t he knocked them over when America had-- when he’d--  
  
England’s heart stopped for a hopeful moment. Maybe it had all been a dream! Perhaps he’d fallen asleep over the books, and his whole, doomed trip to the past had been a mere fever dream, born of exhaustion and guilt.  
  
_I love you. Uh, let’s just be cool.  
_  
England’s heart ached enough for it to have been real. But then, dreams were often like that. How many mornings had he woken enraged or despondent over visions that dissolved in daylight even as he tried to remember them?  
  
There was a scrape at the door, and America’s voice.  
  
“England?”  
  
The fairies squeaked with alarm.  
  
“What-- coff?” England hacked. America was there, in his house! That meant something. It meant England had come back before America had found the poppet. Or it meant England had indeed been dreaming of the future, like a warning. Oh dear God, England thought. Next America would say--  
  
“Thought you were down here. Phew! Smells like a head shop, dude.”  
  
\--that was what he would say. Had said. The stairs creaked as America crept down them with hesitant steps.  
  
England’s gaze flew to the America-poppet and the rest of him flew to its feet. In his haste he knocked over his teacup, further drenching an immeasurably ancient book, but fuckitall, whatever time and place he’d returned to, that silly doll at least would not haunt him.  
  
_Is that me? Are you doing freaky stuff?  
_  
He stumbled over, grabbed the doll, and dropped it into the first open chest he found. He slammed the lid shut just as America poked his head over the railing.  
  
“What are you doing?” America asked.  
  
_Cleaning_ , England meant to say. Instead he blurted, “President Ford!”  
  
America’s brow furrowed. “Pres-- do you mean my old President Ford? What about him?”  
  
“I-- I--” England began, thinking hard. When was he, dammit? “It must have been a dream. I fell asleep reading, and I dreamed about President Ford being shot.”  
  
“Nope. That’s one that never got shot. Squeaky Fromme tried,” America said with a laugh. Then he shuddered visibly. “You’re kinda creeping me out, though. Is that a skull with a candle in it?”  
  
“Yes, yes it is,” England said, and his whole body sagged with relief. Whatever future -- present -- _something_ \-- he’d returned to, it wasn’t That One, the one he’d created through his own idiocy. But then, where had that future -- present -- gone? Was it waiting to catch him unawares, like a plot point in some American science fiction film?  
  
It didn’t matter. England would never, ever attempt time travel again. Ever.  
  
“Why’s your hair wet?” America asked.  
  
England brushed a hand over his head without thinking. Not a dream then; wet it was. From a very sad shower, one that made his chest hurt to remember.  
  
“Don’t come down. I’ll come up,” England said quietly.  
  
“Okay.” America yawned. With one last grimace at England’s skull-candle, he turned to head upstairs. “We have a big day tomorrow.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, we do,” England said. He blew out the candles, snuffed the lanterns, and followed America up the creaking steps.  
  
He did not sleep a wink, however; despite his best efforts, the poppet haunted England, whispering accusingly from its dark, cedar prison. _We probably shouldn’t’ve_ , it said. _You said things you probably didn’t mean._  
  
***  
  
The big day was the last day of the G7, and as host of the meeting, England had to present the plans and resolutions the world’s leaders had hashed out over the days of conferences. England read aloud the mimeographed papers prepared overnight by his assistant. All seemed as it should; yes, they’d discussed maritime trade policy, and of course they’d faffed over and over about the Soviet Union.  
  
But they were barreling into an unknown future, somewhere England had never been. He’d been doing that his whole life, but now it seemed rife with pitfalls. Coming clean was out of the question, when he had to be careful of everything said, every question asked. He stuttered through the speech and twitched at every sudden gesture or word spoken too loudly.  
  
America even noticed. He came up to England when the meeting was over and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. To his shame, England jumped half a meter.  
  
America merely laughed. “I gotta go. You okay? You’re as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”  
  
“Colorful. But apt. I suppose I’m just … tired. The, er, dream.”  
  
“Yeah, you do look like crap.” America added injury to insult after that kind pronouncement by refusing to look England in the eye. He seemed to fidget. “I guess you just looked like you were mad … like I’d done something to tee you off again.”  
  
Oh, he was mad, all right. In the original meaning of the word. England sighed. “No. You only tried to railroad the meeting once or twice. Hardly worth noticing.”  
  
America glanced back and nodded. “I dream weird stuff all the time. You gotta just let it go. I mean, I dreamed Tony and I went to Mars and there was no atmosphere and our eyes were all bugging out, like, totally gross! But it would make an awesome movie scene--”  
  
“Mmm hmm,” England said. His mind raced as he wondered what came next. The script. Minus bugging eyeballs. When had they planned to-- oh, yes. Uncharted the future may have been, but still there were schedules, stretching on into infinity. The thought was comforting. “I’ll … I’ll see you at the Olympics?”  
  
“You’d better sleep before then if you wanna _compete_.”  
  
“I’m going to sleep as soon as I can get home.”  
  
“Great!” America peered at him from over the rims of his spectacles. “By the way, if you dream that your phone bill is jacked up, it’s because I called Russia last night and told him I was sorry for everything bad I’d ever said about him, and I hope he comes to the Olympics after all.”  
  
“What?!” That time England felt like he jumped the full meter. For that was impossible! Unless the Fabric of Universe had indeed been rent by England’s actions. England would stab himself with his wand, see if he didn’t, over and over until he’d repaid his debt to history--  
  
“Ha ha! Just kidding. Geeze, like I care. Let ‘em have their lame-oid Friendship Games.”  
  
England’s heart restarted. “You … you … idiot!” he said, jabbing America’s chest with his finger.  
  
“Ow! Hah. That’s the England I know.” America’s smile was wide and white.  
  
England took a deep breath. Who’d have thought he’d ever be so glad to hear America denigrate Russia? He poked him again, this time a little more gently. “Twit.”  
  
And he did drag America into an alcove where he could kiss him goodbye, lick those white teeth. America tasted like the mint gum he’d been chewing but England caught the ghost of beer, of memory, of _oh God, England, oh God, unh,_ and his perverted mind suggested that when he went to L.A., he’d ask America if he wanted to get very, very drunk.  
  
***  
  
England did not sleep right away as promised. Upon arriving home he went straight to his library -- the proper one, not the one filled with Dark Grimoires -- and skimmed the most recent encyclopedias and books about current world events to be sure everything was as it should be, history-wise.  
  
Only after that did he go to the basement. He did not read the magic books, merely closed and shelved them  
  
Except for the time-travel book. That one he taped shut and stuck a note that said “DON’T” in very large, very black letters on the front. The fairies squealed to see him ruining one of his priceless old books, but that hardly mattered after he’d spilled tea all over the insides.  
  
He dropped it in the chest with the poppet and locked the chest. Perhaps he was high from lack of sleep or sheer relief, but doing so was rather cathartic. It was like the sun shone at last in his not-human head, banishing the fog: he took a deep breath and made a vow of New and Good Resolutions. No longer would he try to right bad magic with yet more magic and risk exacerbating his sin. Neither would he continue to allow self-recrimination to poison his good judgment.  
  
He couldn’t change the past. He could only live in the uncertain future.  
  
The future would involve coming clean. Eventually. When the time was right. But the right time never presented itself! They were both very busy at the Olympics. He never even had the chance to get America stinking, hollering pissed, and the one time they did manage to squeeze in some sex, it was too quick and America was distracted.  
  
“The Games are totally gnarly, right? Do you think I’m winning enough medals?” he asked, even as England was riding his arse, trying to hurry up and come so they could make the next important event.  
  
It was almost enough to kill England’s erection, and definitely enough to sink him into a foul mood. That was exacerbated when President Reagan pulled that crap about “outlawing Russia” and “bombing in five minutes.” To top it off, Great Britain’s showing in the Olympics was not excellent. They didn’t even manage to crack the top ten in medals! Not that they always did, but he’d hoped the, er, improved relations with the United States, as well as the absence of most of the Soviet Bloc, would have given him a better chance.  
  
Thus England wore a scowl all through the closing ceremonies. America finally gave up on “ol’ grumpybutt” and wandered off to canoodle with Japan and Germany. There was Howard Jones, singing “Like to Get to Know You Well” for the world and promoting peace and amity, and all England could do was glare across the hall at America and think, _I can’t tell you the truth because I love you, and I can’t tell you I love you because you’re being a little shit_.  
  
France was one of the few to approach him. At least England had beaten France at the medal table, even if only slightly. France raised his eyebrows at his expression.  
  
“Such a glower at poor America! Is the bloom off the rose?” he said with a sly smile into his glass of wine.  
  
England snorted. “Not at all. So do you like the award-winning California pinot you’re drinking? I hear the USA has done very well in wine competitions these last few years.”  
  
That had been calculated to stab France right through the heart and it did, moreso than any jab about medals in sport could have. France _hmph_ ed off. Only then did England notice Canada, who’d been standing right there.  
  
Canada, who’d come in sixth, patted England on the shoulder. “I hope you’ve resolved those troubles you were so worried about?” he asked.  
  
So England went home in a worse mood. The UK suffered a tense autumn, made terrible when the Provisional IRA tried to blow up the Prime Minister and her cabinet, right in the middle of Brighton.  
  
Things were going to hell and even America’s visit in late October, a week or so after the bombing, didn’t improve them. America was sitting on England’s sofa when he arrived home after a long day at Westminster suffering paranoia, mourning, and anger.  
  
“I’m taking you to see a movie,” America announced.  
  
“Don’t want to.”  
  
“Aww, come on. It’s escapism. There’s killer robots and scrappy humanity! Arnold Schwarzenegger! We’re making the best movies ever.”  
  
His smile was bright and excited. Talk about escapism: England felt his soul thaw a little at the cheerful support in America’s gaze. Nobody else wanted to be near him, but America was there, when he could have been anywhere else. It was more than England deserved or expected.  
  
Except! The fucking movie was about fucking _time travel_. Even though it was his own fault it was uncomfortable, England sulked and bitched throughout it. America refused to leave until it was over.  
  
“How was I supposed to know you hated time-travel movies? Nobody hates time-travel movies!” America whinged on the way out of the theater.  
  
“I do.”  
  
“But there was heroism! Arnold Schwarzenegger! Industrial destruction and, and, romance! God, that was so sweet, how he fell in love with her picture from the future and went back in time to father his own best friend!”  
  
“Gah! No more. Time travel is not romantic.”  
  
Of course, alternate-1976 had seemed extremely romantic until England had behaved like an utter, love-sotted ass. His cheeks grew warm at the memory. He reminded himself that he would not think of it. The Future was All.  
  
“Fine,” America was saying. “And there I was. All in the mood.”  
  
_In the mood?_ That sounded hopeful, at least. America did look good in his peacoat and rolled-up jeans. England hoped his deepening flush didn’t show. “Are you staying?”  
  
America shoved his hands in his coat pockets and looked away. “I’ll use the guest room.”  
  
England’s cheeks grew even hotter, this time with pique. So much for resolutions! He ignored the sharp ache that rent his ribs and turned up his nose with a sniff. “Good! And be considerate. Last time you were here, my icebox was emptied and my razors were scraped into sad submission.”  
  
So that visit didn’t go well. It seemed that a lack of major guilt let the minor annoyances creep in. Or perhaps guilt and lust had made England nicer to America than he’d been used to?  
  
Regardless, they tried again at Christmas. The party was in Washington that year, and England even brought a thoughtful gift: an early edition of _Phantastes,_ by George MacDonald, since America liked fantasy and science fiction. He wasn’t sure that America appreciated it, but the fairies assured him that the unicorn could tell that America was very pleased (the fairies had begged to come along and visit their friend, and since America couldn’t see them anyway, England had agreed).  
  
America did give him a quick kiss for the gift and all seemed well. They wound up chatting with Norway, who could see the fairies but wouldn’t tell. But then, Norway had some very odd demons whose existence England would never reveal if he could help it.  
  
England sometimes wondered how it was that boisterous America got on so well with a quiet cynic like Norway.   He supposed Norway had put up with Denmark for many years. Perhaps he missed the noise? They were discussing -- what else? -- the Soviets, when “Do they Know it’s Christmas” began to play on the radio.  
  
“Ah! Wonderful musicians for an excellent cause,” England noted. His musicians, of course. He waved his glass of wine at America. “Your stations need to play it more.”  
  
“Hah. That’s bogus. The lyrics make, like, no sense.” America elbowed Norway, who nodded in agreement.  
  
England’s ire rose at the words and display of solidarity that did not involve him. “Bollocks. Of course they do.”  
  
“What, with lines like ‘There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmastime?’ Africa’s ginormous, you know. What about Kilimanjaro? I’ve been to Kilimanjaro, and there’s definitely snow on it.”  
  
“It’s not meant to be taken literally--” England tried to protest, but America waved him off.  
  
“And there’s lots of places without snow at Christmas, duh. Like, in the southern hemisphere? What about Australia?”  
  
England crossed his arms. “Oh, so you’ve chosen now to become familiar with world geography?”  
  
“Whatever. You’re just grumpy that your music is stupid,” America said, crossing his arms as well and staring England down.  
  
Oh, the bloom was definitely off the rose. America was an ass. “It is not. You can’t get enough of my music. Besides, it’s for charity. There’s a famine in Ethiopia, you know.”  
  
America’s face was turning pink over his skinny red, white, and green Christmas tie. “Yeah? We’ll make our own song. Just you wait.”  
  
“You sound like children,” Norway noted in his quiet way.  
  
Stung, England went for the supreme jab, much like he’d used before falling in-- gah! Did America even know how England suffered for him? “That’s because he is a child,” he said.  
  
America’s cheeks bloomed full-on red, matching part of his tie at last. “Okay then, _old man_. I’ll bet you my song about the Ethiopian famine is better and makes more money. Whaddya think of that?”  
  
“That’s a silly thing to bet on. There are lives in the balance,” England said from his high horse. Then curiosity made him climb off. He narrowed his gaze. “What’s the prize?”  
  
America’s eyebrows rose; it seemed he hadn’t expected England to take his bait. “Oh! Ummm. You have to go see a movie of my choice. And you can’t complain during it at all.”  
  
“Ouch,” Norway said, and England glared at him. Really, though, as penalties went, that was harmless. Mostly.  
  
“Hmph. Then if I win, I choose the film.”  
  
America grinned. His cheeks had faded back to something near their normal tan -- at least, as tan as he ever was in December. “Agreed. And it’s all for a good cause, like you say.”  
  
England had to struggle to not rub his hands together with evil glee. How could anyone beat a song that had Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, George Michael, and Bananarama singing on it? He was already trying to decide what type of Merchant-Ivory-style period drama he’d make America watch. It would be torture for him. Educational torture.  
  
But in January ‘85, USA for Africa released “We Are The World.” They did make more money than Band Aid had, and technically had a better song. England hated to admit it, but “We can't go on pretending day by day/that someone, somewhere will soon make a change” were probably more sound lyrics and less offensive than “Where nothing ever grows/no rain or rivers flow.”  
  
America claimed his penalty in March, when England flew over with Midge and Bob to start planning the joint UK/US Live Aid concert. America met him in Philadelphia. They went to see a movie called “The Breakfast Club.” England brought the fairies, just because.  
  
“Oh, lord, it’s a movie about schoolchildren,” England said, as the credits opened onto a cloudy day at an all-American high school.  
  
America poked him. “You’re not allowed to complain,” he whispered.  
  
“I’m not complaining. I’m commenting.”  
  
Someone shushed them. The movie introduced the characters: a bookish boy. A rich girl. A sport type. An odd person. A delinquent. They were … in trouble for something? To make restitution, they were to sit quietly all day and write a paper.  
  
“Oh, wow. This is totally realistic!” America whispered after a while. “The nerd, the hood, the princess, the jock, the punk, all stuck in a room. Awkward! This is just like high school.”  
  
“I hardly think so. And you never went to high school,” England pointed out.  
  
“Yeah? Well, neither did you.”  
  
“How do you know?” England said.  
  
“If you did, you’d be the nerd. I’d be the badass.”  
  
“Shh!” the lady behind them said again, and they settled down for the rest of the movie.  
  
There was delinquency. There was dancing, drug use, and silly drama, all the hullabaloo that humans got up to in their too-brief youths. It was too overt; there were no layers, not like a proper drama. Rolling one’s eyes did not make a sound and couldn’t be seen in the dark, and so England did it as often as he liked.  
  
“Am I allowed to say that was very silly?” England asked when it was over.  
  
“What? That was awesome. So sweet,” America said. He was humming _Don’t You Forget About Me_ only half-under his breath as they walked through the darkened car park.  
  
“Simple Minds are Scots,” England couldn’t help but mention.  
  
America sighed. “There you go again. You’re such a sore loser.”  
  
“Not at all.” The people in the movie had endured such … angst over their young lives. Such tears and confessions about things they’d done, things they wanted to do. England couldn’t imagine it. “Oh, to have such problems as that. My parents expect too much of me! Pah.”  
  
America stopped humming. He shoved his hands in his pockets and began to slouch, which probably meant that England was, once again, not going to get laid.  
  
“Yeah? Well, I sympathize with ‘em about parents and stuff. That, I have put up with.”  
  
England was most very definitely not getting laid. America had gone straight for the kidney punch.  
  
“Now, that’s just awkward,” England said when he could find words.  
  
“Well, you’re totally being an asshole,” America said. “Besides, haven’t we just done this?”  
  
“Done what, idiot?”  
  
America sighed again. “Argued over a movie. You don’t like anything.”  
  
“I like lots of things.”  
  
“But not the things I like. Oh, well. I’ve wondered more than once how it is we’re even together.”  
  
England was too steamed to even be hurt. His cheeks were … were boiling, surely. “I wonder that myself,” he said. Lied.  
  
Thus he was relegated to the guest room in America’s Philadelphia apartment, which was smaller than his place in Washington, which meant that the room doubled as storage. The narrow bed was surrounded by stacks of old clothing and books -- some dating back to the last century -- and dusty mechanical or electronic-looking things England could not identify.  
  
England lay atop the coverlets, sleepless. As the anger wore off the ache in his heart wanted to make itself known. They shouldn’t make movies about teenagers falling in love, because they were a bad example. Love was a painful state for humans and nations alike. Words he’d spoken himself returned to haunt him: _shouldn’t get too close. Getting physical is risky._  
  
Well, the physical part no longer seemed a problem. They hadn’t had sex in months.  
  
England contemplated getting up and cleaning the room, just to tire his body and clear his mind, and if America was “teed off” by it, as he was fond of saying, that would merely sugar the tea-cake. England could make lots and lots of noise.  
  
But he really didn’t feel like stirring up the dust. So he tried counting sheep to settle his mind. He remembered counting eight hundred and forty-seven sheep when he awoke.  
  
Oddly, he awoke face-down on something hard. He was drooling onto it.  
  
He lifted his head and opened his eyes to see that he was in a … classroom? Sitting at one desk among many, ordered in straight rows and columns. Sunlight shone into the room through handprint-smudged windows. Only a few of the desks were occupied, with young people sleeping and drooling much as he’d been.  
  
He glanced down to see that he was dressed all in black. His tee-shirt said “Sex Pistols.” He had one like it at home somewhere.  
  
“This is definitely a dream,” he said aloud.  
  
“Ha ha! If it is, we’re sharing it.”  
  
America came up beside him. He was dressed rather as he’d been in London, in rolled-up denims over high-top trainers, this time with an athletic letter jacket over it all. He looked as fresh and young as any sixth-former.  
  
“I can’t believe you’re the punk and I’m the jock,” America was saying. He plopped down into the desk next to England and _pfft_ ed a breath that sent his unruly cowlick quivering. “What the hell is going on?”  
  
“You were being a passive-aggressive twit and I was angry, last I remember.”  
  
“Don’t be a jerk. I mean, how and why are we here?”  
  
England shrugged. “It’s a dream. My dream.”  
  
“It is detention,” said a polite voice.  
  
It was Japan. England and America both turned to see him sitting a few rows behind them. He was sitting primly, upright, with his knees bent at right angles, his legs parallel, and his feet flat on the floor. He had his hands folded on his desk.  
  
“Japan!” America cried.  
  
“Pardon, but that is an offensive nickname. I’m Honda,” Japan said.  
  
“Haha! The nerd,” America said. “Surreal.”  
  
“Shut up or I will cut you,” said an accented female voice. That looked to be … Belarus? She lifted her head from her desk, wiped some drool from her chin, and glared at them. Her hair was wild, like a silver cloud teased from her head. She wore a black leather coat. The delinquent?  
  
“Chill out, Natalya. Hi, guys!”  
  
England looked over to see an attractive blonde girl he’d known quite well once. She was wearing a flowered blouse over a short, yellow skirt and brown boots. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail with a pink, polka-dotted bow.  
  
“Belgium?” England said.  
  
She rolled her blue-mascaraed eyes. “Gawd, what’s with the gagsome country nicknames all of a sudden?”  
  
America looked at England with one eyebrow raised. “You’re England, right?”  
  
“And you’re America,” England offered.  
  
Even with that settled, it got surrealer when Germany strode into the room. He was wearing a camel-colored suit and spectacles and looked much as he had when England had seen him last at the G7.  
  
“Awake! And be quiet,” he snapped at them all.  
  
“The principal,” America whispered.  
  
“Apt,” England agreed.  
  
Germany barked once more for silence and then glared at them each in turn as he strode down the rows, handing out composition notebooks and pencils. He glared longest at England and Bela--Natalya, who hissed at him when he passed.  
  
England had just seen this, or something very close to it, not two hours ago, and was unsurprised when Germany informed them that they were to sit quietly and write two thousand words on who they were. England was rather surprised, however, when Germany motioned America out of his desk and reseated him two rows away.  
  
“No more fighting between you two. I mean it!” he barked.  
  
England snickered, giddy with the silliness of it all. Well, someone had to separate them, he supposed. And two thousand words would be child’s play: _I wish to be a proper, upright nation, in a peaceful world of proper, upright nations with governments composed of sound, qualified people who are democratically elected_ ...  
  
It only took a few minutes for America to break the silence.  
  
“So. Do we bond over how shitty our parents are now?”  
  
“Gosh, be quiet! I don’t want to get in trouble,” Belgium whispered.  
  
“Don’t be such a princess, Emma. You and your Swatches,” Natalya snarled.  
  
Easy two thousand words or not, England did not have patience for this: he’d lived for a very long time. Endured several centuries of growing and infighting -- some of which he’d caused himself, admittedly -- and occupation by everyone from Rome to the Vikings to France and beyond. Germany held no authority over him, less so as an American high-schooler. When one had thumbed their nose at weeks of bombing, a Germany in a suit and tie was a negligible threat.  
  
“I think we go to the library next,” he announced, snapping his composition notebook shut.  
  
“When did you start talking all proper?” Natalya said.  
  
England ignored her. When he got up and crept out of the room, only America followed, which was fine by England. Best to air their angsts between themselves, if they were the only ones aware of themselves in what he increasingly suspected was not actually a dream.  
  
“So what’s really going on? Cosmic fate? An alternate universe?” America whispered as they walked.  
  
“A trick,” England said. They found the library, which was spacious and multileveled, much as it had been in the movie. When he checked a few books at random, however, he noted that they were either blank or filled with gibberish. They hadn’t had time to create them properly …  
  
“They” were several highly agitated beings, supernatural in quality, who’d left the theater with him and America and yet hadn’t been seen since.  
  
“Trick by who? Germany?” America shrugged when England showed him one of the blank books. “No, wait! It’s Russia! That asshole. I knew that new guy, Gorbachev, looked shady. I’ll show him--”  
  
“No, the fairies. Another world created by their magic,” England said.  
  
America laughed. “Fairies aren’t real. Magic isn’t real.”  
  
That was an old argument between them, long ago settled by England himself. But he would not mention that, of course. “They’re as real as my unicorn. Now your unicorn.”  
  
“The one I don’t have? Who eats hay?”  
  
“That one,” England said with a nod.  
  
America shrugged. He looked … bouncy. His blue jeans were tight. Hell, England’s black denims were illegally tight. He was also wearing skull-buckled combat boots, he noticed. Those, he did not have at home. He didn’t think so, anyway.  
  
They sat down together at one of the library study tables. Books aside, the fairies had done a very good job with their spell. The room even smelled like a school, antiseptic and dusted with the ghost-scents of teenage hormones and sweat.  
  
The silly, capricious, dear things. He would have to have a very stern talk with them.  
  
“Maybe it’s aliens,” America suggested.  
  
“Whoever it is, obviously they think we need to iron out our problems.”  
  
America slouched in his chair and frowned. “Whose problems? Your problems?”  
  
England sighed. “Not this again.”  
  
America seemed to agree: there were a few moments of silence between them. America swiveled back and forth in his chair while England fought the urge not to graffito the table. He drew circle-As on it with his finger, wondering if his skin hadn’t absorbed some sort of youthful rebellion from his clothing. Were the fairies capable of that?  
  
“This doesn’t really work for us,” America finally said in a resigned voice. “There’s too much history in our brains. We can’t be real teenagers.”  
  
“Hnh. Try being as old as I am.”  
  
America tilted his head. His gaze took in England from top to bottom. “Gotta say. You don’t look old. Whatever this bizarro world is and however we got here, you fit right in.”  
  
“I feel like it. I feel … full of energy,” England admitted. And full of lust, he didn’t say aloud. Well, it had been months, after all. And America looked … young. His complexion showed a healthy, shiny glow. His lips seemed fuller than usual. He was quite scrumptious, even if he was being a dork. And had England just thought the word “dork?”  
  
“So, what? Do we come clean and then kiss and make it all better? Sounds grody,” America said.  
  
Some of the warmth that had been growing in England’s belly dissipated, or perhaps rose to set the tips of his ears aflame. “Sorry my kisses are so repugnant to you,” he muttered from between clenched teeth.  
  
But America shook his head. “No, It’s not you. Well, it is, but not like that. It’s just … why have you been so weird lately? It’s like you’re constantly on edge. You just look at me and … and cringe, or something. I thought we’d gotten past that. I haven’t invaded anybody lately or anything.”  
  
England’s lust had definitely fizzled out, and had been replaced by an all-over body ache. Rheumatism of the soul, caused by guilt -- not only over the things he’d done, but the things he’d not done. He took a deep breath before answering.  
  
“I apologize. I’ve just been under stress,” he said. He couldn’t look America in the eye for what came next. “I’ve done some things I’m … not proud of.”  
  
Further confession was blocked by America’s sharp laugh. “Just like the movie, huh? So what? You’ve done lots of those. So have I. It sort of, of … comes with the existence, I think.”  
  
“But I’ve--” England began, then let America’s words sink in. As if they were aspirin for the soul, they eased some of the heaviness from his bones. “Are you speaking philosophical sense? I think you are.”  
  
America’s sudden smile was blinding, spring sun shining through an only slightly smudged window. It warmed England’s existence.  
  
“Ha ha! I guess if we’re, I dunno, arguing about movies, we’re not bombing anyone?” America said.  
  
“Fortunate,” England said.  
  
They grinned at each other like idiots while England’s existence warmed to the tune of several decades. At last he stood, slow and hesitant. When America only continued to smile up at him, he leaned in close and slid his fingers over America’s ear to capture the golden shine of his hair, then kissed his full-looking lips.  
  
It was very sweet, like a teenagery kiss. That didn’t last. Unless straddling America’s lap and sucking face with him noisily counted as “teenagery.”  
  
The months of a sex-free existence because of silly arguments seemed so petty, now, with his darling America under his fingers, his lips, and his increasingly tight denims. So what if they argued? That was _what they did_.  
  
After a while England noticed that their chair was emitting some rather alarming squeaks. It didn’t seem entirely stable. That hardly mattered when his skin was on fire, so hot that America seemed cool by comparison; his flesh, his kisses, were all that kept England from disintegrating. His fingers on England’s back under his Sex Pistols tee-shirt kept him solid and breathing.  
  
England pulled back to kiss the corners of America’s lips, which were definitely swollen. “I believe I’m experiencing adolescent hormones,” he whispered.  
  
“Dude, me too. Did you know you have an earring?”  
  
“Oh, do I?”  
  
“Yeah, right here … mmm.” America proceeded to suck on England’s earlobe until he was lightheaded. That, or his denims were so tight they’d constricted his bloodflow.  
  
They halted, breathless, at another squeak, one that was definitely not the chair. The door! England peeked over the table divider to see Germany poking his head in the doorway.  
  
“Is anyone in here?” he called.  
  
“Shit,” America and England said in unison and tumbled off the chair as quietly as possible. They hid under the table, still trying to catch their breaths.  
  
“Who’s there?” Germany shouted.  
  
“Ooh, we’re gonna get busted,” America whispered.  
  
“What can he do to us? Give us even more detention, perhaps?”  
  
America covered his mouth to hide a snort. “He could -- hah -- make it a -- _snrk_ \-- U.N. resolution!” America said before he succumbed. His shoulders shook and tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes until England had to cover his own mouth to hide his own mirth.  
  
“Flagrant violation of -- _huh_ \-- international detention law?” England said from between his fingers, sending America into another giggling fit. England himself laughed until his diaphragm hurt, but it was a good hurt. He sure hoped the fairies were enjoying what they’d wrought.  
  
No, wait, he thought as he eyed America’s pink face, his spring-sky eyes crinkled with laughter. He hoped they were nowhere near.  
  
At last the library door clicked shut. England caught his breath and pointed upstairs.  
  
“Let’s find a more private spot,” he said.  
  
They crept, hand in hand, up the stairway and across a balcony until they found a study alcove. This time there was no hesitation as they fell all over each other. No uncertainty at all as they spread out right on the floor and groped what they could around their too-tight denims.  
  
Under the letter jacket America was wearing a pink, button-down Oxford shirt. England had to pull back a little to work the buttons, but he leant in after every couple to capture America’s lips, steal his breath.  
  
“If this is the movie, shouldn’t we be kissing the girls?” America said during one separation. England took that for what it was: America’s usual chatter during sex. Lord, he’d missed it.  
  
“Are we following a script?” Ah, there -- he’d gotten the silly shirt open at last. He shoved his nose into America’s flat but soft belly and licked his navel, a move guaranteed to make America shudder. **  
**  
It worked. “You’ve d-- done it with Belgium, right?” America stuttered. He flopped his head back on the carpet. His fingers caressed England’s ears, light, feathery touches that sent tremors racing up and down England’s spine.  
  
“A gentleman doesn’t reveal what happened after World War II.” England scowled at the fastening of America’s blue jeans. How had he gotten them on, anyway? Machinery?  
  
“You -- you dog.” America lifted his arse so England could pull his jeans down. He gasped when England palmed his cock. “She’s cute, though. Um. I made it with Belarus once in the 60s. We were both trying to piss off Russia.”  
  
Sometimes America’s chatter had a point. How odd was it that Belarus and Belgium were both there? At that thought, a smidgeon of jealousy managed to work its way past England’s focus. Still, it was just chatter. Meaningless. “That was brave of you,” he said.  
  
America groaned and _ah-ah-ah_ ed when England took the end of his cock into his mouth. But being sucked off didn’t quiet him for once, only made his voice creep higher. “It was kind of hot, though.”  
  
At that, England pulled his mouth away and leant on his elbows. He couldn’t help it! He was very definitely jealous. He locked gazes with America. “So. Do you want to be with her now?” he asked.  
  
“God, no. What makes you think that?” America said, looking as surprised as he sounded. Then he smiled and cupped England’s cheeks in his soft fingers. “I just wanna be with you.”  
  
England’s heart expanded to fill his chest, light and full as a balloon. His vision blurred and his voice squeaked from the helium as he said, “Just me?”  
  
“Yeah. Just you.”  
  
England beamed and then licked America’s cock again, a present from his repaired heart. “Tell me,” he said before he slid his mouth over it again, slowly, swirling circles around the flesh with his tongue. He was unrepentant, unutterably greedy, for America’s pleasure, his heart in return.  
  
America’s voice had gained a floaty quality. “I know why it is we can’t be apart. Sometimes I feel like it's just us against the world. _Ah_!”  
  
“Mmm hmm.” England wanted to cry. He didn’t know if it was from having a cock in his mouth, or being so in love his poor, inhuman body couldn’t contain it. Probably both. He held America’s hips still and felt fingers tighten in his hair.  
  
“Besides, you’re my … huh, England, I guess. We’re totally going together. Oh, _God_.”  
  
“Gmg whrm?” England said, garbled, but then America’s reply was lost in his orgasm.  
  
England didn’t give him time to recover. He didn’t swallow, either; he spat into his hand and smeared the mess all over America’s stomach. Then he crawled up and kissed America very thoroughly, and then he looked him eye to eye, nose to nose.  
  
“Now I am going to make further love to you, right here. And you are going to be quiet,” he said.  
  
It was a threat filled with affection and America accepted it as such with a dreamy smile. So England proceeded to make good on his threat, burying himself in America’s body, sinking into the tight circle of America’s clutching arms and thighs, indulging all the hormones that had ever raged in any teenager anywhere.  
  
America was mostly quiet but England was not, punctuating his thrusts, fast and slow, with whispered _my darlings_ and _I missed yous_ and America answered _yes, yeah, that’s it_ , rocking with every movement England made, like they were one body, just them against the world. America palmed the sweat gathering in the small of England’s back and stroked his cheek when he climaxed.  
  
Eventually the sweat dried and they’d just gotten mostly re-dressed when there was another squeak at the door. This time, it was their fellow detainees. Detentioners?  
  
“I think they’re up there being totally gay,” Belgium was saying. “So, Nats. Didn’t you say you had some grass in your locker?”  
  
The door squealed again as it was shut behind them. England and America looked at each other, grinning. America opened his mouth as if to speak, and England woke up again.  
  
This time he was back in America’s Philadelphia guest room. He knew it by the smell, of dust and fabric softener on the coverlets, even before he opened his eyes.  
  
_Was that another dream?_ he barely had time to wonder before he heard disjointed thumping noises, as if someone had just fallen out of a bed. He climbed out of the narrow guest bed and met America in the hallway. America was wearing pyjamas. His hair was mussed and wild.  
  
“Dude, were you--”  
  
“I was--”  
  
“I knew it! It was _aliens_!” America cried.  
  
“I already told you. It was the fairies,” England sighed. He looked up and down the short hall. “Where are the naughty buggers, anyway?”  
  
“England, magic doesn’t exist. It has to be aliens. I gotta call Tony and ask him."  
  
_Oh, lord. Tony._ The little shit. England rolled his eyes. “If I agree it was aliens, can we go to bed and you can call him in the morning?”  
  
“Haha! Aliens it is,” America crowed. He didn’t look much ready to sleep, was bouncing his heels on the carpet. He looked … happy. Energetic.  
  
Good, England thought.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! As usual, all comments, concrit are loved and appreciated. They keep me writing. <3
> 
> Lessee ... Ronald Reagan did joke on a radio show that we were outlawing Russia, and we begin bombing in five minutes! I don't think it was revealed until later. The time-travel movie was, of course, Terminator. 
> 
> "Like to Get to Know You Well" by Howard Jones was an unofficial 1984 Olympics song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JnAFCOzdUE
> 
> "Do They Know It's Christmas" by Band Aid really was a dorktastic song, but I loved it when it came out. The mullets in this video are EPIC: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjQzJAKxTrE
> 
> "We Are The World" by USA for Africa I liked less, but it did sell more: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M9BNoNFKCBI
> 
> "Don't You Forget About Me" was Simple Minds' theme song to The Breakfast Club, which really is a very silly movie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CdqoNKCCt7A


	8. My Love Explodes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Live Aid and sex, pretty much. Some history!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tossing some more tropes at y'all. Oh, and sex, and then more sex. Hey, at least I'm writing something! There is sex with a drunken character (again) in this chapter, and it's unrepentant, so be knowing that. :)

  
England was alone in the tiny, dark office, and glad to have temporarily escaped the screaming concert crowds. He creaked the chair back and propped his feet on the desk. No one to see him, after all.  
  
He cradled the phone receiver between his ear and shoulder and took a sip from the plastic cup of whisky Scotland had handed him – excellent stuff, despite its lowly vessel – and lit a peri-post-Live Aid fag while he waited for someone on the other end of the line to locate America.  
  
It was an odd experience, hearing the song playing in his phone ear even as his free ear could pick up the muted, thumping, live version being played somewhere above. It was like stereo but not, the verses in one ear delayed a few disconcerting seconds by the audio feed’s satellite journey across to America and then the phone connection’s faster trip back through transatlantic cable.  
  
_Here’s to you, raise a glass for everyone! Here’s to you, raise a glass for everyone! Here’s to them, underneath that burning sun! Here’s to them, underneath that burning sun!_ bounced against each other in his brain. Once would have been enough; he could admit now it really was a silly fucking song.  
  
For a good cause, of course, despite what the naysayers said about Ethiopia’s underlying problems. And despite the fact that Bob Geldof was a smug little bastard. When they’d carried Bob on stage for the finale, England had wandered off to find some quiet in the bowels of Wembley Stadium.  
  
Where he was exhausted but rather mellow. The music today had been good: Queen in particular had produced a set that would go down in rock history. The cigarette smoke invigorated his lungs just enough, and the scotch fired a pleasant burn in his belly. He considered whether or not he might kick off his shoes.  
  
There was a rustling on the other end of the line, and then “Yello,” said America’s voice.  
  
“About fucking time,” England groused.  
  
“Hey, I’ve been busy. There’s a concert going on here, you know.” Despite his defensive words, America’s voice held a trace of raspy amusement. England decided he liked it; it went well with the scotch. He smiled back against the phone receiver.  
  
“I do know. I’ve been going it all day. Now the rest is up to your lot.”  
  
“Roger and aye aye, good buddy.” England could see, in his mind’s eye, America’s mocking salute. “I think we’ve got it covered.”  
  
“Who’s up next, again?”  
  
“Tom Petty! Oh, and your guys are here – the guys, Duran Duran. The ones from Antigua, remember?”  
  
Antigua, oh yes. England certainly remembered. The yacht. _Now the party’s over_ … the memory of anticipation struck sparks in his nerves, even as the scotch-burn pulsed low in his stomach. Lower.  
  
America, with the taste of champagne and sea air on his hesitant lips. His tanned forearms …  
  
“What are you wearing?” England murmured.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I said, what are you wearing?”  
  
“Um. A tee-shirt and jeans.”  
  
“Which jeans?”  
  
“Which – does it matter?”  
  
“Yes. Tell me how they fit.”  
  
America didn’t reply right away. _Feed the world! Feed the/let them/world!/know it’s Christmastime_ , the Band Aid(s) dueled between his ears.  
  
“Um. I’m not exactly alone right now,” America said at last.  
  
“So? You are not here, and I miss you and I want to fuck,” England said before he could think better of it. At least he was alone, and the flush that rose from his heart to his eyebrows would be seen by nobody. What sort of spell had he wrought, that he’d become the one admitting to all the soppy feelings? Though America had said he only wanted to be with him …  
  
He didn’t say it now, only cleared his throat and asked, “What did you say?”  
  
“That I wanted to fuck,” England said, not un-truthfully. More truth would be admitting that his lust and longing aloud had made his cock stir inside his trousers. He set his cigarette into an ashtray and traced his zipper with his fingers, the pre-spectre of new anticipation beginning to rumble through him. _Only wanna be with you._ “Don’t you have cordless phones there in America, America?”  
  
“Yeah, duh. But the range sucks.”  
  
_Suck_ … ah, that was a good word. “You’re a clever boy. Figure it out. Now, tell me about your jeans.”  
  
There was a sigh, and then the song cut out on the other end of the line, as if America had shielded the mouthpiece with his hand. Then came his voice, sounding close. “Acid-washed Levis.”  
  
“I don’t give a bloody damn what you’ve washed them in. How tight are they on your arse?”  
  
There were another few moments of silence, then, “England, you picked a really sucky time for this, let me tell you.”  
  
“Mmm. Tell me more about sucking,” England said, slipping his fingers beneath the tops of his trousers, then sliding them under the bottom edge of his shirt to feel his own trembling, warm skin. The ghost-memory of America’s flesh under his fingers overlaid his own touch. “After you tell me about your jeans. Are they loose enough that I could stick my hand inside them, grab your arse? Or would I have to unzip them, first?”  
  
“You’re such a pervert,” America whispered, close and harsh in England’s ear.  
  
“So I am,” England said. Or he’d’ve never done all the things he’d done, to get America in the first place. Things he couldn’t even regret, not with his cock hot and dry and demanding under the swipe of his thumb-pad.  
  
There was another sigh. “They’re … they’re pretty tight. And I’m kind of sweaty. It’s hot here in Philadelphia in July, you know. Hot and ste-e-e-eamy.”  
  
England chuckled, low, at America’s attempt to sound seductive. England could tell him, but wouldn’t, that he never even need try, bless him. All he had to do was be himself. That was all England wanted, really, and whether he’d gotten it or not … remained to be seen.  
  
“Mmm hmm,” he said. “I’ve been there.”  
  
“So, uh. What are you wearing?”  
  
“My hand on my cock,” England said, and he was. As he squeezed his fingers around it the low, thumping throb began to coalesce into a knot of desire in his belly, and at America’s sharp gasp – shock or arousal? Did it matter? – it spiked into a hard ache. He closed his eyes in the already-darkened room, imagining America’s hand on him there. His mouth, his arse …  
  
_Thank you and good night. Over to you, Philadelphia. To you, Philadelphia_ , Bob’s voice called, first in one ear and then the other.  
  
“Ungh,” America said, sounding rather pained. “I totally can’t get a boner here. I’m surrounded by bands and roadies and MTV veejays and everything …”  
  
“You can. In fact, I demand that you do.” England stroked himself more forcefully, wrenching the ache higher, letting the intensity creep into his voice. Speaking with conviction was most of the doing, rather like with magic. “Do it now.”  
  
“Hah. You can’t really order me around anymore,” America said, sounding wry.  
  
“I could if I were there,” England said hoarsely, stroking his cock and riding the little wavelets of pleasure burning through his limbs. “I’d make you hard and there’d be nothing you could do about it. I’d push you against a wall somewhere, and lick your teeth, and wank you off inside your jeans while the adrenaline and energy of the crowd swelled, that screaming, throbbing mass of ecstatic people …”    
  
England could hear the catch in America’s breath when the spell took hold, could hear the fraughtness in the silence after.  
  
“Jesus, England,” America whinged at last.  
  
“Well, did it work?”  
  
“Pfft. Hold on a minute.”  
  
The background noise of the call returned. He heard America say to someone _yeah, I’ll be back in a mo_.  
  
And speaking of swelling and throbbing; England’s hand was working too fast and he slowed it to an almost excruciating pace, wanting, hoping for, America to catch up with him. The noise on the line grew a low hum of static, there was some clanking and shuffling, and then America’s voice returned.  
  
“Fine, then. Perv. You win. So, are you? Really”  
  
“Am I what, really?”  
  
“Choking the chicken in public.”  
  
England choked back a snort at the ridiculous turn of phrase. “I’m quite alone.” He’d locked the door, even.  
  
“Well, I’m not. Mostly. There’s smufflemumbleshhhhhh.”  
  
“What?” England said.  
  
“Static,” came America’s voice, somewhat huffily. “I told you about the range. I’m too far from the receiver.”  
  
“Are you hard?”  
  
“What?” America shout-whispered over the static.  
  
“Are you touching yourself!” England said, more loudly.  
  
“Oh. Enough to get arrested if anyone catches me.”  
  
“You’d best be quick, then. Perhaps if I kissed down your chest? Licked the July sweat off your nipples? Imagine it, my clever, lovely boy.”  
  
The chair creaked as England arched his back, and above him the stadium rumbled with the exiting crowd. America’s breathing grew heavier over the static-filled line. England could almost taste the salt on his sun-warmed skin …  
  
“Yeah, that, unh, helps.”  
  
“Thought it might,” England said. After all, he knew exactly how to get America off, both the versions of him he’d made. All the secret spots no longer a secret. “I’ll rub my face on the inside of your thigh.”  
  
“You’d have to be down on your knees in the grass here, next to this trailer,” America suggested.  
  
“I’d do that for you,” England said. _Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it_ , he’d thought to himself, years ago, when he’d been dense with lust and had never had America to slake it onto. He’d dreamed, then, of America touching himself and thinking of England, haha, and now America was doing just that. Was hard at England’s voice. Probably his face was pink and gleaming and furtive … England swallowed. His next words were a broken whisper. “Anything you want.”  
  
“Ungh,” America said again, years of sex and memory in the sound. “Guess I’d put my back against a wall for that.”  
  
“Yess…” He would, and England would, too, all of it; he’d press his mouth against America’s skin, capture every beat of his not-human heart with his lips. England’s arse grew heavy, inundated with sensation and sound and imagination, and he sank down, down, into the chair, sinking forever, held in this world only by the stroke of his own fingers and America’s transatlantic voice in his ear.  
  
“Your – hah – hair is kind of a mess already, but I’d mess it up even more with my fingers.”  
  
Oh, how England wished he were there, or that America were here, so he could feel it for real. He didn’t have enough hands and he couldn’t stop working his cock, not now—  
  
There was a rush of noise through the connection, cutting into England’s haze of lust. “What is that?” he asked. It wasn’t static.  
  
“The band’s starting. It’s like – unh – sex and rock-n-roll. They go together, hah--”  
  
“Come on, luv,” England coaxed, even as the song started. Ah, yes, Tom Petty. _Well she was an American girl, raised on promises_.  
  
“I luh-- uh, like it when you say that.”  
  
England’s heart stuttered. Had America almost said--? “Er. When I say what?”  
  
“What? I can’t hear you over the music.”  
  
“Mmm.” America, being soppy and regretting it? The suspicion rather melted England’s toes.  
  
“Speaking—hah – of, Queen totally rocked the house, didn’t they? Like wowuh,” America huffed.  
  
“Lord, yes. It was orgasmic,” England half-moaned into the receiver.  
  
“I can only imagine what it was—ah-hah—like to be there. I would’ve fucked you right there on stage, man, totally, just hearing it live.”  
  
Oh, wouldn’t that’ve been lovely? The hard thump of the drums, Freddie Mercury wailing his lungs out, controlling the swaying, beating heart of the crowd in his hands, much like his own heart jumped at the mere sound of America’s voice. The mere thought of America’s voice …  
  
“Ah!” England cried-gasped, as his arse-cheeks grew taut and pleasure spiked uncontrollably between his fingers. He clenched out the last few spasms, arched out of the chair and breathing hard.  
  
“Jeeze, you – huh – totally came at that, didn’t you?”  
  
“It was inevitable. Lord, what a set that was,” England breathed. Sex and rock-and-roll and America’s voice in his ear, the real thing. “Hurry up, now. Put your mouth close to the phone.”  
  
“I garbleschmurbleshhhhhh--”  
  
“I can’t hear you. Speak up!”  
  
“Shit, England, they were really, really good-ah-ah--”  
  
Even through the static England heard the involuntary cry America always made when he climaxed, the little whine beneath his breathing. England savored every gasp, recorded them all in his brain for future use. There was a short, comfortable silence while he turned into a puddle in the chair.  
  
“Ahh. Dang, the smuffleshhh,” America said after a bit.  
  
“What?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“No, you.”  
  
“I said, now I gotta go wash my hand,” America said, shout-whispering again.  
  
“You follow orders well. You should do it more,” England told him.  
  
America laughed at this cheekiness and offered some of his own. “I’ll get you for this, ya know.”  
  
“We’ll see.” England was looking forward to it.  
  
“Um. You know, you could fly out. There’s a new movie I want to-- uh, never mind about that. But Phil Collins flew over on the Concorde. You could, too!”  
  
That was … rather sweet. But. “I’m committed here,” England admitted. Curse his geographically, politically, and sociologically created soul, that it was stuck in a nonhuman, weak and lusting body.  
  
“Oh. Okay. Hey, I’m gonna go clean up. And I want to see Tom Petty play.”  
  
England supposed he should wipe down and then head up himself, lest anyone be looking for him. _Besides, America probably wants to see_ Back to the Future. “Well, carry the torch for us, then. I’ll look for you onscreen. Tell Duran Duran I said hello.”  
  
“Will do. Catch you at Christmas?”  
  
“Can’t come soon enough,” England said and hung up, feeling himself flush at the words. He’d sounded much too gooey. His heart was the open fucking book, right-o.  
  
Except when it came to admitting that one little thing he’d done in 1981 … oh, and the other little thing he’d done in 1976. And the … well. Too many things!  
  
The guilt had abated, of course – like America said, they’d all done things they weren’t proud of – but could a relationship be special if perpetrated with dishonesty? New and Good Resolutions were all very well and new and, er, good, if they were followed through on.  
  
Would France admit to everything, like he’d suggested? England snorted as he creaked his legs off the desk and looked for a tissue. France probably would. And then he’d soften the blow with amazing wine, food, and art. The bastard. England could offer fine literature, but that wouldn’t get him far with America. Monty Python might work, or more pop music.  
  
Things as they stood were … not bad. They were “going together,” after all (England had later asked a staffer with American cousins what that meant, and he’d learned it meant _dating exclusively_ ). But if only America would say it:  
  
_I love you, England.  
_  
Well, first England would probably explode. Just hearing his brain say it in America’s voice made his fingers shake so that he almost couldn’t zip his trousers properly. But after the kaboom, he’d feel free to say anything in return. Admit to everything, come as clean as he might ever wish. The bricks would fall where they might and nothing else would matter.  
  
Thus all England had to do was get America to say it. Sans magic, of course! The winter holiday celebrations, in London that year, would be the perfect time for it. England would have to plan very carefully. And be extra nice.  
  
***  
  
However, America spent the next few months expressing admiration for everyone else. He called England in September and stated, “Man, I love France!”  
  
“And why is that?”  
  
“You won’t believe what we just did!” America said, a squeal of excitement audible under his voice.  
  
It said much for England’s comfort with _things that weren’t bad_ that his mind didn’t immediately jump to _sex_.  
  
“What did you and France do, America,” he asked on a sigh.  
  
Apparently they’d executed a joint expedition to the north Atlantic and had discovered the remains of the _Titanic_. Exciting news, but.  
  
“That’s my ship!” England bitched, frowning at the receiver.  
  
“We didn’t take anything but video. I’ll mail you a copy on tape.”  
  
“The RMS -- Royal Mail Ship -- _Titanic_! Remember?” England said.  
  
“I’ll Fedex it,” America said.  
  
“Betamax, mind,” England sniffed. And then he remembered he was supposed to be extra nice. “Er, congratulations on making history?”  
  
“Thanks!” America’s beaming smile was visible in England’s mind’s eye. _Well done, self,_ England thought. Then he went and dug out a vintage _Titanic_ crew pin and mailed it to America. Perhaps for Christmas he’d deck his house in traditional, turn-of-the-century decorations. Pre-World War I: he wanted to rouse America’s most tender feelings, not make America to feel sorry for him, after all.  
  
In October, America had a fling with Japan and called to tell England about it.  
  
“Yo! Japan brought Super Mario Brothers to my house!”  
  
Surely he didn’t mean the Italies? “Who are they?”  
  
“For Nintendo. It’s a video game!” Through the receiver England could hear Japan’s quiet voice in the background, along with some _bingy_ and _bongy_ noises.  
  
“Oh. Like that Atari you spend so much fooling around with?”  
  
“Much cooler than Atari. It’s brand new!” England heard a smacking noise, like America had just kissed Japan. He could well imagine the red flush of mortification burning on Japan’s cheeks. “Japan, I love you, man. You’re the best!”  
  
“Well, enjoy yourselves,” England said brightly. Then he mailed America a whopping box of snacks suitable for video game-playing, including prawn chips. For the holidays, he’d prepare all traditional foods, like turkey and oysters and quail with truffles, and make sure to include lots of sweets, like a yule log and plum pudding.  
  
In November, America and Ronald Reagan met for the first time with Mikhail Gorbachev, the Soviet Premier. And Russia. England was not invited. So much for “us against the world.”  
  
“So how did it go?” England asked, very politely he thought, when America called from Geneva after the meetings.  
  
“Pretty good! He seems like a guy we can work with.”  
  
“That’s what Mrs. Thatcher said. Two years ago,” England said with a sniff. They’d have to plan their own meeting with the Soviets. “A short while back you called him ‘shady,’ if I remember correctly.”  
  
“Well, you know. Anyway, Russia seemed pretty okay, too. He seems to really want peace.”  
  
Coming from America, that was practically an _I Love Russia!_ The twat. England decided to be a little jealous. Just a little. Then he swallowed it. “So what are they willing to do to achieve peace?”  
  
“We talked about arms reductions, but not European arms, just ours. All they really care about right now is public opinion. Oh, and stopping underground nuclear testing and Star Wars.”  
  
Star Wars did not mean the movie, but the Strategic Defense Initiative President Reagan had been itching to develop. The United States wanted to use satellites to fire defensive missiles!  
  
“That crazed and inoperable plan. Shouldn’t be too much to give up,” England said. America huffed in annoyance.  
  
“Hey, you would benefit from that, too.”  
  
_Be nice!_ England reminded himself. “If you say so. Well, congratulations. And you can tell me all about it when you come out.” England would not have a single electric light in the house; he’d decorate all with candles – utterly nonmagical ones, of course – and play something classical and warming. He might even break out one of his last two remaining bottles of 1902 Gran Bordeaux.  
  
“Thanks!” America sounded cheerful again. “I can’t wait to s-- for the party. Should be awesome.”  
  
The dear boy; he came so close! Those simple yet meaningful words he could say to everyone else – _I love France! I love you, Japan! Russia seemed pretty okay!_ The dear, sweet little _shite_. England would decorate the house with candles but he would not, no never, use magical ones, and he would not drop any hot wax on America in any kind of non-kinky way, and he would be so supportive and wonderful that America would just say it and make England’s life so much easier!  
  
Christmas Eve started perfect: outside a gentle, breezeless snow was falling in the waning evening twilight, turning the dingy streets of London into a white fairyland, and England’s house smelled of wax and juniper boughs and fireplaces. America showed up wearing the Titanic crew pin on his snow-dusted overcoat. His eyes were blue behind his fogged spectacles and their greeting kiss inside the door, under the mistletoe, was as full of lingering and longing as England could have hoped. Forget the Bordeaux: England’s kneecaps grew warm and his head muzzy before he’d even had a sip.  
  
“Looks pretty in here,” America said when they broke apart at last. “I feel like I’ve gone back to the old days. Except for the music. Who is that?”  
  
“Oh!” England said, stuffing America’s coat into the closet and rushing over to switch out the album to the London Philharmonic Christmas concert he’d originally planned to have playing. _My love explodes like the stars up on space, for you, just you!_ “It’s the Dukes of Stratosphear.”  
  
“Sounds psychedelic,” America said. “So where is everyone?”  
  
England’s hand jerked and the needle scratched the record, blast it. “Everyone who?”  
  
America had stuffed his hands into his pockets and was looking up at the greenery England had strewn about the ceiling. “The party. Everyone else.”  
  
“There isn’t – I’d thought that we’d have a r-- I mean, yes, a r- romantic holiday with just the two of us,” England stuttered.  
  
America’s chin dropped and his eyes grew wide behind his spectacles. “But I thought-- Um. I’ve talked to France and Japan and Canada and Spain and – well, and they all said yeah, they were coming!”  
  
The knocker rattled on the door.  
  
“Oh, bloody fuck,” England said.  
  
America winced. “Sorry.”  
  
It was France. He swept in the door, bussing first England and then America on their cheeks before throwing his arms wide and flinging snow all over England’s living room. “Joyeux noel!” he cried.  
  
“I didn’t invite you,” England said, glaring.  
  
France shrugged, dislodging more snow. “I know. But you are always rude, so I assumed it was an oversight.”  
  
“You bas--” England began, but stopped when next Canada trailed France through the door. After him came Japan and Portugal and Spain and and Luxembourg and Belgium and Netherlands and … well, a lot of them.  
  
“Hi, everyone!” America said, putting a bright face on his gaffe.  
  
“Mister England! Are you sure this is gonna be enough food? Is it edible?” Italy of the North was surveying the dining room table.  
  
“These days, candles on a tree are a fire hazard,” Norway was saying.  
  
“Oh, England, you sly dog. You brought out the Chateau Lafitte 1902! I don’t even have one of these anymore,” France cried.  
  
“That’s not for you!” England stomped over to rescue the bottle of elderly Bordeaux from France’s depradations. Then he sighed and, hugging the bottle to his chest, dug his telephone out of the cabinet where he’d hidden it. He dialed Harrod’s to order more wine and hors d’oeuvres. A lot more wine. The more quickly he got everyone drunk, the more quickly they might pass out and/or leave.  
  
The evening was not a disaster. The Italies, bless them, quietly dumped England’s scraggly, overcooked attempt at truffled quail, and then raided his pantry and cooked a grand meal. To his credit France had loaded his car with champagne, which helped to lubricate everyone, including England, into merrymaking and good cheer.  
  
Only somewhat grudgingly, England shared the Lafitte. America’s wide eyes when he tasted it were gratifying. “Wow, this actually is the good stuff,” he exclaimed.  
  
All in all, in fact, America’s tipsy good mood was gratifying in the extreme. He drank a lot of champagne (also the good stuff) and held England’s hand under the table and bumped their shoulders during dinner, each warm touch sending England’s pulse thumping lower and lower in his belly. At one point he even leaned close and whispered, “This is fun, but a romantic evening would’ve been cool, too.”  
  
His face was pink and his expression mischievously conspiratorial. England only just managed not to grab him and throw him to the floor and kiss him in front of everyone. Instead, he patted him on the arm. “All is forgiven,” he whispered back.  
  
The candles burned down as the evening waned into midnight and then waxed into the early hours of Christmas morning. England snuffed the ones on the tree (yes, they were a fire hazard, as he’d discovered several times in the past) and one by one, nations drifted off. Eventually only France and Canada remained, playing England and America in a rowdy round of whist by firelight. America had once been very good at the game, when he’d been a small boy, but this night he kept giggling and fumbling cards from his hand and trumping his partner Canada’s aces.  
  
“You maybe need to go to bed,” Canada informed him at last.  
  
America dropped his cards and set his chin into his palms, leaning his elbows onto the table and scattering his cards further. He’d long ago shed his jacket and tie, and his throat and the very top of his breastbone were enticingly flushed where they peeked out of his partially unbuttoned shirt. He waggled his eyebrows at England.  
  
“Shounds awesome,” he said without shame.  
  
“Haha! Then we should call it a night,” France said, standing.  
  
England dropped his own cards and tore his gaze from America’s breastbone to look up at France. “Are you staying? There are, er. Plenty of bedrooms,” he said.  
  
“That’s nice of you, thanks!” Canada said, standing as well. He offered England a toothy grin that looked suspiciously innocent. Then he glanced at America. “First we’ll take care of him.”  
  
“Oh, England’ll take care’a me,” America drawled.  
  
Canada raised his eyebrows, but France only laughed and wandered over to the stairs. He waved back at America and winked at England. “Good night, my dears.”  
  
“Bonne new-- nuit!” America offered a messy wave, then stood. He wavered on his feet. “I think I’m drunk,” he said.  
  
“I think you are. Come on, then,” England said.  
  
Between himself and a grimly smiling Canada, they pushed America up the stairs and into a bedroom – not England’s as originally planned, sigh, but the one where he’d earlier stowed his luggage – and he fell face-down onto the bed. Once England got Canada situated in another room and helped build a fire, he wandered to his own room to find France there. It should not have been a surprise that France was starkers. He was digging, bare-arsed and humming, through England’s dresser.  
  
“What the hell--” England sputtered, and France spun, laughing.  
  
“Not who you wished! Will I not do? Haha! The look on your face.” France had nabbed one of England’s nightshirts from a drawer. He shook it out and then pulled it down over his head. “I had planned to catch the last ferry to Calais but since your fete was so lovely, I missed it. And it’s much too cold in your land to sleep naked. Alone.”  
  
“Well, you’re not sleeping with me. Shoo.” England waved his hands. France, though thankfully covered at last, did not leave, however. He stopped inside the doorway, leaning against the jamb, and looked at his fingernails.  
  
“So: tell me, England. Have you been honest and good, that Pere Noel will bring you some gifts to make up for your lonely night?”  
  
“No.” England stalked into room and kneeled to stoke the fire. The Frog was correct, damn him: despite the furnace, his house was old, and it was chilly. And damn France for knowing England for so long that he felt free to pry. England may have asked for his advice, but that had been long ago. France was rather like America in that respect: despite being incredibly silly, they remembered things they had no business remembering. “I’ve been rather awful, in fact. But that’s par for the course.”  
  
“So it is. You never allow yourself to be happy, do you?” France stopped pretending to examine his manicure and crossed his arms, fixing a steady gaze on England.  
  
England glared back. That was in no way true! Just because he wanted … no, he wasn’t drunk enough at the moment to admit a damned thing to France, or ask his advice in any way. “Bollocks! Now bugger off.”  
  
France grinned. “Since you ask so nicely. Merry Christ—mas! Make a good wish, and all will become well.” He blew England a saucy kiss and sauntered off down the hallway.  
  
England shook his head. He sighed again and began to get undressed. Alone, dammit. Part of him wanted to grab another bottle of wine and go into France’s room for a good, drunken coze. Another part of him wanted to check on America. Just to see if he was covered properly, and that the fire had enough fuel!  
  
A thump at the door interrupted his maundering and unbuttoning of his trousers: it was America, leaning against the door exactly where France had minutes earlier. Also like France, he was not wearing a stitch of clothing - not even his spectacles.  
  
“Hey,” he said and waved.  
  
England’s gasp probably sounded strangled. How strange it was, that the sight of one naked body inspired only exasperation, and the sight of America’s sent his heart jumping into his throat. It danced around in there for a bit, choking him further as he eyed America’s shiny skin and half-hard cock. Had he been touching himself, on that lonely bed in the dark room--  
  
“So are we gonna have sex?” America interrupted England’s thoughts yet again with his … nakedness. And a lopsided grin that was probably meant to be seductive. It succeeded.  
  
England found his voice. “Get out of the hallway and get in here! Aren’t you cold?”  
  
“God, no. I’m too drunk and horny to be cold.” America took a couple steps and stretched, drawing England’s eye up and down his lean form. His posture, which customarily hinted at coiled energy, was loose and languid. Begging to be flopped around and shagged into eternity. England’s own limbs tried to puddle on the floor. But, no.  
  
“I think you probably need sleep,” England said. He shut the door anyway.  
  
“Hmm. I know what I need,” America said, and moved with deceiving agility to plaster himself all over England. His breath was boozy and hot and wonderful, his tongue sinuous and sloppy, and his fingers squeezed England’s arse until he couldn’t breathe with wanting him. England’s terrible brain and hands remembered fucking drunken America, in another life, when all had been laid bare. America, soppy in lovemaking, might say anything …  
  
Somehow they were lying on the bed and America had fumbled England’s trousers down to his thighs. “We’ll have to be quiet,” said England’s terrible mouth against the bare skin of America’s chest, as his awful hands fumbled lubricant out of the bedside table.  
  
“Meh, of course! Fuck me, dammit.” America’s exaggerated whispers were the opposite of quiet.  
  
“Shh!”  
  
This was England’s Christmas wish: his America, in this life, none other, open, willing. Noisy. Even with his face muffled in the coverlet his cries pierced the background noise of the room, the quiet creak of the bed, the crackle of the fire, England’s huffs as he stood behind America and pounded into him.  
  
“Ah! Do it, England, that’s right-- ah--!”  
  
“Shh,” England hissed again. He sounded desperate. He was desperate, his toes curling into the rug as he gripped America’s hips and slammed into him with increasing fervor. He’d had just enough champagne himself to make him a little buzzy-numb, to make the aching burn in his loins build slowly and powerfully. And America’s body may have been loose but he was still strong. His arse clenched around England’s cock with hot friction.  
  
“More, more, more,” America chanted in time with the movement of their bodies, growing louder with each forceful thrust.  
  
Before England could shush him again, he heard a series of thumping noises from another room. It sounded like someone was moving furniture. Whatever the cause, England’s hips stuttered to a halt, his cock still inside America, throbbing with fulfillment and every heaving breath America took. Had he locked the door? “What the bloody--” he murmured.  
  
“Don’t stop, man,” America bitched.  
  
Almost involuntarily, England’s hips started moving again, swirling, reveling in the feel of America around him. “Try to be quiet! Canada was giving me an evil glare, you know,” he said in a harsh whisper.  
  
“Screw Canada. Like he doesn’t get stoned and do it,” America moaned into the coverlet.  
  
And didn’t that unexpected brain-image throw England off his newfound rhythm? He jerked to another halt. “Really? With whom? France?” he couldn’t help asking.  
  
“Nah, I don’t think so. But then, everyone shleeps with France, so who knows? Why aren’t you fuckin’ me, anyway? Don’ follow orders very well.”  
  
“Don’t follow--?” England began, then realization dawned on him. He threw himself onto the bed. “You!”  
  
America rolled over and wiggled up to face him. “Ha. Told y’I’d get ya.”  
  
“You – you twerp!” England raised his hand and America fake-winced, then grinned as England used his fingers to smooth away the crease the bedcovers had pressed into his cheek. Hadn’t he just been thinking earlier that America remembered all the wrong things? Or the right things, depending from which side one was looking at it.  
  
“That’s some boner you got there,” America whispered. He rubbed his thigh against it.  
  
Yes, and it hurt. England slid his hand down America’s chin and chest to curl his fingers over America’s own half-erection. It gained some plumpness at his insistent touch. “What about you?”  
  
America snorted. “Man, I’m too drunk to come. Doesn’t mean I don’t want have sex, though.”  
  
“Oh, really?” England murmured. He doubled his attack, trailing his fingers back along the base of America’s cock to the sensitive spot between his testicles, and nibbled at the weak zone on his throat, the one three-quarters of the way from his chin to his earlobe, the one that made him--  
  
“Ungh,” America moaned. His cock firmed in England’s fingers and England pressed the advantage, giving it several unyielding strokes. _Too drunk to come, my arse._  
  
Still, England discovered another benefit to shagging America while crocked: he had a lot more time to kiss him and touch him and flop him about in all sorts of ways without ending the matter too quickly. At one point he kneeled and pulled America’s bottom onto his thighs, then slid back inside him, angling his thrusts upwards for maximum effect.  
  
The way America arched off the bed, and the swell of his erection on his sweaty belly, spoke of the maneuver’s success. His mouth was open, slack, beloved. He also continued to be loud.  
  
“Ah yeah, come on, you-- harder, ngh!”  
  
“Shh,” England whispered once more, though it was obvious that wasn’t going to work. He shifted so he could kiss America’s gaping mouth, snog him into erotic, muffled moans, felt in the tongue and teeth more than heard.  
  
That was better, anyway, closer, as intimate as a wish upon a star. And America’s strength came into play again, in the crush of his thighs around England’s hips, the desperate clutch of his fingers in England’s hair. He pulled England’s head down until their foreheads touched.  
  
“Your face …”  
  
“What about it?” England murmured into America’s mouth.  
  
“It was so shweet. You were gonna make me eat that awful food,” America said (whispered, at last).  
  
“I should’ve,” England murmured, teasing. He was a little silly as well, lightheaded from the exertions of his body, the welcome taut burn that built and built between them … him and his darling.  The knot low in England’s belly couldn’t coil much tighter; every thrust had become acute, crucial, as if it might be the last.  
  
“South Italy makes the best ravioli, I swear. I love--” America began and then paused; England’s heart clenched to match the tightness in his belly, an ache of mingled fear and hope that stole the breath from his lungs. “Italy. ‘S food,” America finished.  
  
“Ha!” England gasped on a badly needed breath. He quickened his rhythm further, harder, making their foreheads slide together. “Such lo-- love for everyone. France?”  
  
“Mmm hmm. Ah, man--”  
  
“Don’t forget hah-- Japan.”  
  
“Is this-- You wan’ me to type you a list?”  
  
“Yes,” England breathed. _As long as I’m on it,_ he didn’t say aloud. _My love explodes …_  
  
“Unnnh.” America’s face scrunched as he gritted his teeth and tightened his thighs and rocked hard into England’s rhythm, matching it, both of them moving so wild that the bed creaked and shook. In the next room there was a crash, as if something had fallen off the wall. Or been thrown.  
  
“Haha! Awkward. We will rock you,” America huffed.  
  
_We. Them._ They, together. England climaxed, hard, his limbs locked for breathless, acute moments. He had barely the presence of mind to grasp America’s erection between them and wank it hard. America’s prediction had been a sham: he gasped and shuddered, spilling over England’s fingers.  
  
They sagged together, energy spent at last, and America’s all-over grip relaxed into gentle caresses up and down England’s spine. England stole oxygen from America’s mouth for a while. He licked the sweat from America’s temples until his own heart slowed its mad beating.  No, things weren't bad; not when he had these moments. Happiness came in moments, after all, brief sublime seconds.  And America would ever do things his own way.  
  
“Think ‘m dead,” America mumbled after a bit.  
  
“Not before I get my list, luv,” England whispered.  
  
“Y’mm,” America hummed, low.  And England couldn't really be too disappointed, all in all.   
  
“Mon dieu, finally,” someone said from another room, and damned if England could tell whether it was Canada or France. He’d have to face them sometime, wouldn’t he? Maybe they’d leave early and he’d sleep in?  
  
England sighed. He’d be a poor host if he didn’t make tea for Christmas morning breakfast.  
  
America snored lightly underneath him, and England rolled off. Before he drifted into his own sleep, he pulled the covers up and over them to ward off the chill.  
  
He slept deeply and dreamed of the day Canada had come to his office dressed in a black suit, shuffling, his head bowed, and yet managing to exude a firm resolve.  
  
“I’d like independence, please,” Canada said, smiling. And somehow England didn’t dare to say no. At least he was being civilized about it, and not trying to tear England’s heart from his own chest!  
  
Dream-Canada began to pull small, round, flattened objects from his jacket pockets, placing them one by one in a line on England’s desk. England picked one up. They were expended lead shots. They were sticky, and smelled of maple syrup. Lovely stuff. England put one in his mouth and sucked on it like a sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and for your patience while I dealt with everything these last few months! 
> 
> Queen's performance at Live Aid is often described as one of the best live rock performances of all time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A22oy8dFjqc
> 
> My Love Explodes is by the Dukes of Stratosphear, who were pretty much XTC trying to be incognito: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30XdxwZb0kc
> 
> (and since XTC are like my favorite band of all time, I had to include something!)
> 
> Shoot, I thought I'd at least make it to 1986. The next chapter may be several years at once, heh.
> 
> PS: I love comments like air. <3


End file.
